A Fairy Tale Wedding
by S. Faith
Summary: Once upon a time, in a faraway land, the prince had to marry out of duty, not love... (Alternate universe)
1. Chapter 1: Prelude to a Meeting

**A Fairy Tale Wedding**

By S. Faith, © 2016

Words: 31,210  
Rating: M / R  
Summary: Once upon a time, in a faraway land, the prince had to marry out of duty, not love…  
Disclaimer: Really not mine!  
Notes: Not really set in medieval times, or even Regency, but a fictional medieval-ish time in fictional English-esque kingdoms. Just roll with it.

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Prelude to a Meeting**

The things he had to do in service to the kingdom.

Precisely, his father's kingdom, to which he was the heir.

Arranged marriages were no longer common in this day and age, but the heir to the kingdom could not get away with taking only a mistress. The one that had been of service to him on the occasion he needed her would never have done as a queen, despite her relatively high birth—and he wouldn't have wanted her as his queen, anyway, because it was all too clear that it was precisely what she wanted. Far too badly.

So a princess of eligible age from a neighbouring kingdom had been suggested—her mother and his own had debuted in society at about the same time, had remained friends, so the girl came recommended highly without a single meeting between the prospective pair.

He, however, recognised the match for what it was: politically expedient to secure the future. He would do what he needed to do. Would do his duty. No delusions of romance persisted with him; they never had, not even for the mistress. He would provide for any wife of his, would keep her comfortable and the inevitable future heirs that would follow. But he knew his life would not fundamentally change from how it was now, and he found that more than acceptable. He was a busy man, good at fulfilling his duty. One more duty would not be a burden, even if it was not an overt joy.

In the midst of reviewing accounts, he heard, just then, carriage wheels on the stone path. His mother. She had made the trip to begin with wedding plans, knew she was even now on her way back; apparently, at this herald, she was returned. He braced himself for the full report.

"Mark, brother, you don't have to look like the executioner is approaching."

It was the voice of his younger brother, Peter, whose place in the line of succession meant a lighter load of expectations; he had a readier smile, a generally more carefree disposition, and was as different from his brother as night was to day. Mark appreciated Peter's ability to lighten his mood. "You exaggerate," Mark said, though he smiled as he did so. "Marriage is expected of me. It might as well be to a daughter of our mother's friend as anyone else."

His brother's own smile faded a bit. "I know you jest," he said, "and I know you have never been a romantic sort, but I cannot help but feel a bit sad for you to be resigned to marry for duty rather than love."

"Save your pity, brother," Mark said, trying to be reassuring more than anything. "Truly, it is of no concern to me. My life will not change appreciably."

…

It was not until supper that he saw his mother at last; she had kept to her quarters after her arrival home, he suspected, to have a quick, refreshing nap after the long carriage ride. Indeed, she was full of good humour and liveliness over the late afternoon meal. The trip, it seemed, had gone far better than expected. Plans were well underway; the cathedral had bent over backward to make the named date available (as if they would not), and the ball would be hosted by the bride's parents before Mark would return with her to his own castle.

Also boosting her spirits was seeing that her husband and Mark's father, King Malcolm, was much improved from the illness that had befallen him, though he was still weak and confined to his bedchamber.

"The princess is delightful," she said, in such a way that made him think she might just be exaggerating a bit. "In fact, I insist that we return within a sennight for you to meet her before the wedding."

Arranged marriages might have been uncommon, but equally uncommon was meeting one's intended before the wedding date. Accordingly, Mark's brow's lifted in surprise. "Meet her?"

"Yes," she said. "I'm sure you have some reservations, and meeting her in advance might help to alleviate that."

Mark had actually not had any reservations, but his mother's need to reassure him started to plant the seeds of doubt. "Surely that's not necessary."

"Mark, I'm going to have to insist," she said, more firmly than he was expecting. "An official meeting will be seen as a willingness, an _eagerness_ , to complete the union."

"And that's needed why?"

"To reassure the populace," she said.

"I wasn't aware reassurance was necessary."

"Your father's health is improving day by day, but he isn't getting any younger," she said, "and while they're glad to know you're ready to step in to succeed him, unrest will begin to build if you ascend to the throne without having secured a wife. And with no wife, there is even less promise of an heir."

He wanted so badly to express his irritation with this wedding taking up more of his time than necessary, but this was his mother, and she was only reminding him of his duty. "Understood," he said at last.

"Excellent," she said, smiling. But then her expression became more sympathetic. "You know I only want you to be secure in your future." With a smirk, she added, "Happy, if you can manage it."

From his side he heard his brother make a sound that sounded a lot like a suppressed laugh. He knew why his brother did so, and could not chastise him for it. Mark was well aware that he had a reputation—one that he had worked hard to perpetuate—as a serious-minded, decisive, and even dour prince. He knew it was important to establish himself as an effective leader before pressed to actually lead. "Secure is sufficient," he said at last.

…

Not him. Anyone but him.

Humourless, unpleasant, and, as had been rumoured, colder than an icehouse in winter. Oh, there were rumours, too, that the prince was handsome, but the accompanying rumoured personality was not, in her opinion, worth it.

Bridget sighed, in a manner quite unlike the regal, noble princess she was supposed to be. Crown Prince Cold Fish was nothing like her dashing, disarming baron, Daniel, who seemed always to know how to make her laugh, knew the right thing to say, and especially knew how to ply her with kisses in all the right places.

Not that she had let him perform the ultimate intimate act—she knew that was one test she had to pass on her wedding night—but nonetheless, he knew how to make her happy, how to please her, without trespassing upon her skirts (though not for a lack of him trying to persuade her—but she had been resolute, as difficult as that been).

And romantic! Her dear baron would steal her away out onto the lake in his boat to recite beautiful, passionate poetry to her; blue skies, sun-dappled waters, days that were as warm as he was—

"You liked Queen Elaine." The voice of her mother, Pamela, interrupted her daydream, and it utterly fouled her mood.

"Why can I not marry the baron?" she burst out petulantly.

"Because he is _totally_ unsuitable, Bridget," Pamela said with pursed lips. "He is a cad."

"Nonsense," she said. "All of those rumours are just that: rumours. They are not true."

"A man with even that many untrue rumours circling around him is not worthy of marrying a royal princess," said her mother. "This is for the best, and I won't hear of any more protest." Then Pamela sighed. "The prince is _not_ as bad as you think," she said. "He will keep you and your children in comfort."

 _Yes, that's what I want out of life_ , she thought. _Comfort_. "But I don't love him."

"You have known since you were a girl that your chances of marrying for love were going to be infinitesimal," said Pamela, her tone kind. "Crown Prince Mark is at least not abusive or cruel, he's not a drunk…"

"But you and Daddy," Bridget cut in. "You love him, and he loves you."

"We did not even know each other at first. I admit, we did get lucky," said Pamela. "You might, too."

 _Infinitesimal_ , thought Bridget. Lightning was not likely to strike twice.

"I only ask that you give him a chance," Pamela continued. "The queen is promising to return with him to meet you for a visit."

Bridget's expression brightened. "Oh, does that mean I can refuse if I don't like him?"

Pamela's mouth formed a straight line again, lips firmly pursed. "No." Then, in a gentler tone, she added, "Just give him a chance. Keep an open mind."

Bridget sank back into her chair; it was fortunate for her that it was a comfortable chair. After pouting under the icy glare of her mother for some moments, she said, "Fine."

Pamela smiled in her victory, rising to her feet. "Excellent, darling. Well. Get back to practising your penmanship for a few hours before supper."

"Yes, Mother."

"Tone, Bridget. I'm your mother, but I'm also the queen."

With that, Queen Pamela took her leave of her daughter's bedchamber.

 _When I'm queen_ , she thought, _I will never make my daughter write lines of nonsense for no good reason_.

She got through three repetitions of the latest nonsense— _A princess must possess grace, poise, and dignity at all times_ —when she set the pen down with a little more force than necessary, dotting a spray of indelible sepia along copious fabric of her sleeve. A mild curse escaped her lips. "A princess doesn't use language like that," she murmured mockingly to herself.

Somewhere in the distance she heard the cathedral bell chime three times, and she gasped. Daniel! She had nearly forgotten about the arranged assignation out in the garden, away from prying eyes. With no time to change her dress, she slipped into her bonnet, her outdoor shoes, and shawl, and made for the door that lead to the gardens where Daniel awaited her.

"I'm going for a walk in the garden to clear my head," she told the head footman in the most authoritative voice she could manage.

"Yes, your royal highness," he said, his craggy face betraying no emotion.

Once through the door and out into the fresh air, once she was certain she was out of view of any prying eyes that might have glanced out from any one of the countless windows, she began to run towards their rendezvous point, the gazebo in the rose garden. When she arrived, she was breathless from the efforts of her sprint and from her anticipation, was sure her cheeks were ruddy… and the gazebo seemed to be deserted.

"Oh no," she said, despondent, tears pooling in her eyes; she strolled into the gazebo, which was shaded from the sun by the roses that had woven through the trellises. Had he gone because she had been so late? Had he not bothered to come at all? She turned around—and then came face to face with the man himself.

Blue eyes crinkled with a smile; his light brown hair fell rakishly over his forehead. "Late again, Princess," he said in a lazy drawl, taking her into his arms.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry—I've been so distracted," she said, before he placed his lips upon hers to kiss her; the passion of his kiss seemed to suggest she was indeed forgiven. He had his hands on her waist, pulling her flush up against him, before drawing away, keeping hold of her hand.

He glanced downward, furrowing his brow. "What did you do to your dress?"

"Pardon?"

"Your sleeve… have you been slaughtering chickens?"

"Oh, no, it's just ink."

"Well, that is a relief," he said, releasing her hand. "Business all settled then?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." She dropped down to the bench in the centre of the ornate gazebo, and sighed heavily. She hadn't told him what all of the fuss had been about while Queen Elaine had been here, but didn't see any way around avoiding telling him now. "I am to be married," she said.

"Oh, delightful. You'll make a stunning bride."

"This isn't a joke."

"I'm not laughing," he said. "I am truly delighted." He sat beside her.

"It is not to be to you," she said, as if he were a recalcitrant child.

"I figured as much, or I might have been part of your meetings," he said, slipping a hand around her waist. He nuzzled into her neck, causing all sense to abandon her. "But once you're married," he purred, "I can make you mine in every way possible. Especially in _that_ way."

She shivered. "Oh," she said, closing her eyes. "I hadn't thought it of like that."

He chuckled low in his throat. "Of course not, my dear," he said, drawing back to look into her eyes. "So to which geezer are you to be consigned? Old Duke Fitzherbert, now that he's a widower? Or perhaps the Earl of Finch? You'll definitely need me to keep your bed warm, if so."

"No," she said. "I'm to wed Crown Prince Mark."

Despite the low light, she saw all colour drain from his face. His voice was papery when he repeated, "Crown Prince Mark… of Huntingdon?"

She drew her brows together. "Is there another Crown Prince Mark?" she said. "What is it? Oh God. What have you heard? Why do you look like I'm about to be sent to the Northern Wilds? Is there something wrong with him?"

Daniel seemed hesitant to speak. "We were educated in the same boarding school," he said. "So… we have a little history. That's all."

"Tell me," she said. "I must know what I'm getting into."

"Do you have to do it?"

"Not five minutes ago you couldn't wait for me to be married so that you could lift my skirts at will!" she said in a harsh whisper. "You still haven't answered my question."

He met her gaze again. "Before he was Crown Prince Mark, heir to the throne," Daniel said, "he was actually something of a human being, and one of my best mates in school. And then he betrayed me. He snuck a woman into the room… then when he got caught, he blamed me, and being that he was a prince and heir and I was _not_ … I was expelled."

She covered her hand with her mouth, in shock over the betrayal as much as the wooden, cold-fish prince possibly having an actual libido. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry."

"It's all water under the bridge," he said, in a tone that seemed at odds with the initial shocked reaction he'd had. "I just don't like thinking of you stuck with him for the rest of your days. Even if I can come help ease the pain."

"Is that even a possibility if I'm the queen?"

"Anything is possible when you're queen."

With that, he bent to kiss her again, voraciously, passionately, turning that kiss to her throat; his hand covered her breast and worked circles through the silk, bringing the peak to attention and leaving her moaning and wishing desperately he could attend to more. "Oh, Daniel," she breathed.

"When you're married," he growled into her ear, his hand tracing over her lower stomach, venturing far too close to forbidden fruit, "I will have you, and you will _never_ forget it."

…

"You're in a much better mood, darling."

Yes, Bridget supposed she was, after the passionate snogging in which she had engaged, after the promise of so much more once she was married—for politics only!—to the stodgy, frigid, horrid Crown Prince Mark. "I've come to realise you were absolutely correct," she said. "I must marry the prince."

"Splendid, my dear, just splendid."

This came from her father, King Colin, from across the dinner table. Where she was often at loggerheads with her mother, she adored her kind, loving, doting father. She smiled, thinking how much this pleased him.

"I do hope," he continued, "that you and he will grow to find the sort of love and companionship your mother and I found."

She glanced to her mother, who was looking at her with an uncommon fondness, and wondered, very briefly, if her mother had ever taken a lover on the side. _Oh God, why did I have to think such a thing?_ She quickly pushed the thought aside. "I hope the same," she said, even though it was a bald-faced lie. As long as she had her baron…

She beamed a smile at her parents. Even if she would let her fiancé know at the soonest that privately, she was less than happy with the arrangement.

 **Prince Mark arrives in Grafton Underwood**

Mark, Crown Prince of Huntingdon, was suitably impressed with the roads in Grafton Underwood. Perhaps it was a good sign. The carriage ride had taken most of the day, stopping for a break halfway through for luncheon before continuing on. By the sheer fact that his mother was beginning to animatedly talk again, he guessed that they were nearly to their destination, to the castle, where he would meet his intended for the first time.

Almost as if she read his thoughts, his mother piped up with, "Do you know, I just remembered, you have actually met Princess Bridget before."

He turned his gaze from the horizon back to her. "Have I?"

"You likely don't remember," she said. "It was shortly after we ascended to the throne. You were about eight years old, and she, about four. King Colin and Queen Pamela brought their children to our coronation at our invitation."

"Children?"

"Yes. Their heir, Crown Prince James, is two years older than the princess."

He strained to think back to the day of his parents' coronation, memories of which he could not fully trust; some he knew to be true, confirmed by his mother, and others could not have been, for they involved people he knew could not possibly have been present, such as the grandfather whose passing had precipitated the ceremony. But there had not been a lot of children there, and he did remember a boy younger than himself, with blond curls and blue eyes. He remembered also a younger sister that he had kept charge over; she had run a bit wild, golden tresses bouncing around her shoulders….

"Did they call him Jamie?" Mark asked suddenly.

"Why yes, they did. They still do, amongst family," Elaine said, smiling in a very satisfied way. "He's grown up well, though a bit more… shall we say, eccentric than his parents. I hear he is has been spending much time traveling; currently, he's on the continent."

"Satisfying a wanderlust before having to reign," Mark said quietly, more to himself than anything.

"Yes, I suppose he is," she said. "But he'll be at the wedding. Pam—Queen Pamela, that is—sent word to me that James has let her know he shall be returning to attend."

"Ah," Mark said, glancing out of the carriage window again. "I shall be pleased to make the acquaintance as adults."

The carriage veered to the right, and as they passed an ornate gilded gatepost he realised they had arrived to the palace at last. Before long the carriage was flanked by the Grafton Underwood royal guardsmen for an official escort to the palace proper.

The weather was beautiful, but it still surprised him to see the official welcome on the palace's grand portico included the king and queen themselves. As they emerged from the carriage, he quickly scanned the small group, but he did not see a girl who could reasonably be his intended.

"My dear, dear Elaine," said Queen Pamela, reaching forward to clasp the hands of her friend. "So pleased to see you again."

"The pleasure is all mine," Elaine said, then nodded to King Colin, reaching for his hand. "And your majesty."

"No need for such formality," said King Colin, a jovial smile upon his face. He turned his attention to Mark. "And you must be the prince. It's been a long time since I've seen you. Very great pleasure."

Mark bowed at the waist. "The pleasure is mine."

"Come, let's retire for refreshment," Pamela said; even as she talked, their carriage was being unloaded and their trunks being brought into the palace. "You must be tired after your journey, and dinner isn't for a few hours yet."

"That sounds marvellous," Elaine said.

Their hosts escorted them into a generously decorated sitting room where it seemed evident that the king and queen liked to spend a good deal of time relaxing; shortly after, servants came in bearing tea and a platter of small, delectable baked goods. After accepting his tea, Mark plucked up a powdered confection, which was small enough to pop directly into his mouth.

"I trust your travel went well?"

"Oh yes, quite."

As his mother and Queen Pamela chatted amicably—he never would have guessed they had seen each other only a week before—he began to stroll around the room until he ended up in front of a window with a spectacular vista. The trees swayed in the breeze, the sparse clouds drifted lazily in a bright blue sky, the gentle ripples played upon the surface of the large pond… and there, out amongst the trees, near the tall grasses by the lake, he swore he saw a flash of amethyst moving swiftly there. The sort of colour not normally found in nature. The sort of colour that royalty liked to don.

"Your royal highness, I'm terribly sorry," said Queen Pamela, interrupting his thoughts, instantly demanding his attention. "I had wanted our daughter to meet you here but…" She trailed off.

"To be honest," King Colin said sheepishly, "we cannot currently account for her."

"Is she clad in purple?" he said; as he asked this, his gaze slid to the window again.

When no response was forthcoming, Mark looked to their hosts once more; the king's face had gone red, his brows had come down. He turned to call for a footman, who came rushing forward. "Get her," he said, pointing to the side garden; the footman went hurriedly out. To Mark he said, calming himself with some effort, "I do apologise. She must have gone out of doors to read or write in her journal, and lost track of time."

Mark felt his jaw tense. She must have known they were arriving today. Did she have no sense of duty, or respect for the time and patience of other people? Or was she one of those horrendously spoiled royal offspring who thought the world revolved around them?

If she was willing to stay out of his way once they were married, then she could be as spoilt as she liked.

After a few minutes, during which he sat and finished his tea, he heard noise out in the foyer. In a few more minutes, the doors swung open. He rose, then turned to them. The footman preceded her, announcing, "May I present Princess Bridget of Grafton Underwood."

She was pretty, he granted her that. Very pretty. She was of average height, by his reckoning; surely the top of her head wouldn't have reached his nose. Having changed from the purple into a pale blue silk gown, there was a roundness to her figure that was not unpleasant. Her generous cleavage was showcased pleasantly by the collar of her dress. Her hair was golden, pulled up and curling around her sparkling coronet; her skin fair and unblemished; her eyes as blue as the afternoon sky, regarding him with deep scrutiny. And rosy lips upon which played the hint of a smile.

These thoughts flitted through his mind in the blink of an eye; he bowed at the waist without missing a beat as the footman introduced him to her in turn. He rose and met her gaze again, acutely aware that four pairs of regal eyes were trained upon them.

"Pleasure to meet you, your royal highness," he said, reaching forward to take her hand. She offered it—strangely enough, not gloved, but he supposed they were engaged—and he placed a kiss upon the back of it.

She then surprised him, surprised them all, by sneezing.

"Sorry," she said. "I had been… taking a stroll in the garden. I think I must have, you know. Allergies."

He raised a brow quite without conscious thought.

She sneezed again.

"Bless you," Mark said drolly, "your royal highness."

She lifted a hand to her face, which had begun to blaze red.

 **An inauspicious meeting**

Why hadn't her mother come to her rescue with a handkerchief? A plate of biscuits? Some tea?

She honestly hadn't meant to be late for the arrival of the king and queen of Huntingdon; she had gone to meet her Daniel for a brief visit, but he hadn't shown, and then she'd fallen to sleep in the shade amongst the redolence of the roses. She woke to realise she was horribly, horribly late, and rushed back to the palace only to be shepherded up to her quarters to quickly be dressed again, her hair coiffed and her coronet placed upon her head, then rushed back down to be presented to the crown prince.

And here he was, taller than God himself, dark brown hair and chestnut eyes, broad shoulders and a fit form filling out the finely tailored royal livery he wore; he gazed down upon her as the footman said, "Princess Bridget, I present to you, Crown Prince Mark of Huntingdon."

And then he'd taken her hand. And then she'd sneezed.

He went on. "May I assist you in some way?"

At long last her mother came by her side, thrusting a square of fabric at her. "No. I'm fine," Bridget said, as she accepted the cloth. She delicately dabbed against her nose, blowing gently, then cleared her throat, determined to start again. "Thank you, though. It's a pleasure to meet you, too."

He stood there, unblinking, his hands now clasped behind his back, his feet shoulder width apart. She had no idea, none whatever, as to what to say next.

But then he cleared his throat, offering a stiff smile. "So…" he began. "Have you… read any good books lately?"

She stared back, unable to believe what she had just heard. She had been so busy with wedding planning—and practising penmanship—that she couldn't remember exactly the last book she'd read. And then it came to her. One book he surely had never read. "Lady Wellington's work. _The Rights and Responsibilities of a Noble Lady_."

"Ah," he said, looking slightly surprised. Good, she thought. But then he continued. "I read that whilst in school. I found it informative, if a bit patronising. How did you find it?"

Stunned again, she opened her mouth to speak, but closed it once more. In all honesty she had thought it was difficult to parse largely due its dryness, and boring to boot, but thought she might sound uninformed and unintelligent if she said so. "It… it was all right."

He thought she was a half-wit. He must have, given how his expression transformed. It made her even more nervous… and then she realised she _was_ nervous, which was ridiculous. She was only trying to be nice, trying to spark conversation, and all he could do was look snootily down his nose at her.

"Darling. Tea?" Her mother, who must have thought she was hopeless to not even manage a conversation with the man she was marrying. "And we have some of those powdered biscuits you like."

She turned away to face her mother, smiling despite herself. "Ooh, yes please." She then realised she had seemed too eager. Almost desperate. She looked back to him. He looked like he had just smelled something distasteful.

 _Why couldn't Daniel have shown up today?_ She fixed a smile to her features, took a seat (as did they all) and accepted the tea given to her; as she plucked a confection from the tray, she thought longingly of Daniel, of his lips on hers, of the warmth and strength of his embrace… she could barely think of a thing to say, and certainly not anything to direct attention off of her. And then it came to her.

"Mother," she said, or more accurately, blurted, "have you told their majesties and his royal highness yet about—?"

Her mother anticipated her words. "Actually, I have not," Pamela said. "We've decided to hold a celebratory ball while you are here to visit."

It had worked. The focus moved from her. The visiting queen looked absolutely delighted, but the crown prince… he looked appalled. Not overtly—he was far too well-bred to betray that kind of emotion—but she could see the way the lines of his jaw twitched and tensed that a ball was more than he had bargained for.

"I was under the impression we were only to meet," he said, glancing to his mother. "Not make a public appearance."

 _Odious man_ , she thought. She knew he was only doing this for duty as much as she was, but he didn't have to make it so obvious that the thought of spending a whole evening escorting her at the ball was completely anathema to him.

"Come now, Mark," said Queen Elaine, looking at him; her tone was gentle but she shot daggers from her eyes. Bridget grew fonder of her than she already had been. "You're never one to shirk your duty."

The words, as few as they were, had clearly hit their target, for his jaw relaxed and he looked down. "Yes," he said. "You are correct." Looking up again, he addressed Bridget directly. "I apologise for such a thoughtless comment. It is no reflection upon you. You seem perfectly… nice."

 _Nice_. She wanted to get up and stomp on his foot, but instead she merely flashed a smile, and then sipped her tea. He just kept looking at her.

The silence was broken by her father. "You would probably like to retire for a little while before the meal this evening; shall we show you to your quarters?"

She was not sure if Colin had recognised the tension in the air or not, but she was grateful that he asked. "Yes, I think that might be best," Queen Elaine said. It was hard to tell whether she was weary, or exasperated with the crown prince.

With that, one of the footmen stepped forward, holding his hand out to the foyer, soundlessly offering to lead them, although everyone knew that Queen Elaine already knew her way to the suites she and her son—Bridget's betrothed, which still took some getting used to—would be using. They all rose to their feet, and their guests were led out.

"Bridget," said her mother, once sure they were quite alone— _Oh, God, here comes the onslaught_ , she thought—"you might have thanked him for the compliment."

"It didn't feel much like one," Bridget admitted. "'Nice'?"

"He's only just met you," she said. "You've only just met him. I would bet your assessment of him isn't very in-depth yet, either. 'Nice' isn't a bad start."

"I suppose you do have a point," she said with a sigh, 'Rude bastard' did seem a bit of a snap judgment.

"What _did_ you think of him?" her father asked.

She tried not to burst out with a laugh. "Very crown-princely," she said at last. She sensed, though, that her father knew exactly how her thoughts really leaned.

"He's very handsome," said her mother.

She couldn't deny it. Too bad that the sour personality eroded that handsomeness. "I'm going to retire to my rooms," she said suddenly, getting to her feet, not answering the question, not really.

"You can't fool me," her mother said, smiling smugly. "You think he's handsome."

With that, Bridget strode out in the most regal manner she could manage, and went up to the stairs and to her apartments; within moments her lady-in-waiting was beside her, helping to take the coronet off from her head and placed carefully it into its velvet-lined storage chest, then out of the gown and into something a little less… constricting. She sighed.

"May I bring you anything else, your royal highness?"

She turned to face her maid, a ginger-haired woman of roughly her own age called Magda. "You could tell me that you've gotten a letter for me from Lord Cleaver."

Magda shook her head. "I have not seen one yet today," she said, "but I could check again."

"If you would," she said, her voice laden with the despair she felt; he had never stood her up for one of their pre-arranged assignations, not once. She hoped he was all right.

…

That meeting had… not been quite what he had expected.

Upon their departure of the sitting room, they had been taken to their apartments. Within a few minutes, their escort had departed, and they were left alone in their common area. He was still in contemplation when his mother spoke.

"You might have given that a little more effort," she said, resignedly.

"I felt exceedingly put on the spot," he said.

"You must be joking," she said with a little laugh. "I'd've expected you to be used to speaking to people you don't know."

"I'm not used to speaking to my future wife," he said, "whom I have only just met."

"You have a point, I suppose," she said. "Odd question to lead with, though."

"You said she liked to read."

"Well, never mind that," she said. "I wasn't expecting the ball, I'll admit. Though I should have guessed that Queen Pam would have wanted one. She loves them, she'll throw one at the drop of a hat, and to honour her daughter's impending nuptials is the best reason to have one yet."

He smiled despite himself.

"I admit that your first impression of her might not have been ideal, having rushed in from outside," Elaine continued. "Must have been quite difficult to come in to meet you with little preparation."

He wasn't sure if she meant mental preparation was necessary to meet him; he gave her the benefit of the doubt. "I concede that it might not have been the ideal circumstances."

"We'll be seeing them for dinner, undoubtedly," she said. "Hopefully it will be a little less formal an atmosphere."

His mother decided she would have a lie-down, but Mark was feeling too restless to nap. He pardoned himself, slipped out of the room and out of the wing in which their apartments resided. An attendant footman stepped forward and asked if he could assist.

"I was thinking of taking a short walk out of doors," Mark said.

"Follow me, your royal highness."

He led Mark through the palace and to a door overlooking the broad expanse of a covered patio, beyond which was a lush, manicured garden. It was peaceful, with only the sound of the breeze in the verdant greenery, the gentle bubbling of the fountain, the centrepiece of the garden. The scent of flowers floated on the breeze, and he took in a deep breath to savour it.

"It's completely walled in, so you don't have to worry about security or being disturbed," he explained.

"Perfect," Mark said. "Thank you."

The footman bowed slightly at the waist, then retreated.

Mark stepped forward, out and into the sun; the breeze played along his face refreshingly. He struck out upon the path, realising as he rounded the curve and passed closer to the lake that he was on the same path on which he had seen the flash of purple earlier through the sitting room window. Curious to see from where she had come, he decided to follow the path back and beyond the copse of trees.

To his surprise, he found himself shortly thereafter in another manicured garden, surrounded by at least a hundred rosebushes, some of which were enormous, and had clearly been there for some time. Nestled in the centre of the garden was a gazebo; roses grew thick upon the trellises on every side that he could see. He ventured closer. The air was a little more still here in this garden, surrounded as it was by taller trees, and the perfume of the roses was strong.

Motion inside the gazebo caught his eye and instinctively he jumped back behind one of the taller rosebushes; to his confusion, someone he had not seen in several years emerged back in to the sunlight, looked in the direction in which he had come, and frowned in disappointed to see no one. With a tug down on his jacket, he turned sharply left and continued on down a path towards the far hedgerow, presumably towards an exit in the enclosing wall.

Daniel, Lord Cleaver, whom the crown prince had hoped never to see again in his lifetime.

When Mark was sure he was gone for good, he started on the path again and ventured into the gazebo. The sunlight was much dimmed, the rose-scent strong; it was rather cosy, and afforded a great deal of privacy, even midday. In the centre there was a bench, and it was clear to him that while the paths in the garden got very little foot traffic, the ground inside the gazebo saw frequent visitation, particularly the ground before the bench.

The answer to why Daniel had turned up became obvious when, as he emerged from the gazebo, he saw Princess Bridget stepping her way down the path. When she realised who was walking towards her, she stopped dead in her tracks.

All decorum forgotten, she furrowed her brows and said testily, "What are _you_ doing out here?"

"Taking a pre-prandial walk," he said. "It's quite lovely out here, and particularly in there." He gestured towards the gazebo. "Yourself?"

"Same," she returned quickly. "And you were here… on your own?"

"I was as you found me, your royal highness," he said. Careful to keep his tone neutral, he asked, "Were you expecting someone else?"

"Me? No, of course not," she said, far too quickly. "That's silly. With whom would I be meeting in the rose garden? _Really_."

He pursed his lips. While discretion was the better part of valour, playing ignorant in this situation furthered no cause. "I saw Lord Cleaver as he left, your royal highness," he said quietly. "You do yourself no favours by meeting him _sub rosa_ —figuratively and literally."

Her cheeks flared bright red.

"How does he access a secured royal garden, anyhow?"

She lifted her chin. "I have given him a key."

"I would strongly suggest that you request he return it," he said. "I am well-acquainted with Lord—"

"Yes," she interrupted. "He told me you were schooled together."

At this, Mark's brows rose. "Did he?" he asked.

"He did," she said triumphantly. "And about how you got him expelled."

"Lord Cleaver got himself expelled," he corrected. "He merely tried to take me—and a reputation I have worked very hard to keep pristine—out with him."

She blinked as if trying to comprehend. Mark suspected that whatever story Lord Cleaver had given to her, it did not match this one. She asked, "And how can I know your story is the one to believe?"

"He did not come by his reputation as a cad because everyone has conspired to lie about him," he said, "and I have nothing to gain by lying to you. We shall be married, and presumably will take measures to ensure the line of succession. He, on the other hand… I'm sure he believes our marriage will benefit him too, when the truth would do anything but."

At this, her mouth dropped open, her cheeks blazed even brighter than before, and her hands were balled fists at her side. "Impertinent!" she said, then turned on her heel and stalked away, back towards the palace.

Within a few minutes, he started walking back, too, deep in contemplation regarding the importance of second impressions.

…

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

While Magda went down to double-check that nothing had come from Daniel, Bridget paced around her apartments, feeling quite restless. The previous missive, which sat beneath the volume of her diary, caught her attention. She plucked it out and read it over again, wondering what she could have missed…

The correct time of the assignation, apparently. For which she was now appallingly late, herself.

"Oh no."

She rushed over to the looking glass to ensure she looked presentable; she looked perfectly fine, thank goodness, and there was no time to wait for Magda to return to help, anyway.

She dashed out of her room, hoping that no one saw her steal down the stairs and out of the door; the foyer seemed eerily quiet, but she was grateful to escape unnoticed. She didn't want to have to stop to explain what the hurry was to get down the gazebo in the rose garden.

She had just rounded the curve and had got the gazebo in sight when she saw a figure moving ahead; when she got closer was when she realised it was not Daniel at all.

The subsequent conversation completely caught her off guard. She had never given the veracity of Daniel's story a second thought. She'd never had a moment of doubt.

Until now.

She was back in her apartments before she even realised it, breathless from hurrying back. A concerned-looking Magda was at her side, plying her with a glass of lemon-water. "Are you all right, your royal highness?"

She nodded.

"There was still nothing from Lord Cleaver," Magda said.

She nodded again, then explained how she had misread the time in his latest letter to her. "I'll write a note to him to apologise," she said. "And to see if he'll meet me again soon. Will you come back after supper to take it away?"

If nothing else, she had to talk to him to figure things out.

Before she retreated, Magda simply nodded, though she smiled a little; Bridget thought that her lady's maid thought the whole clandestine letter exchange was romantic, and before this complication, Bridget would have agreed.

She sat at her escritoire and penned a note in earnest, apologising to Daniel for misreading the meeting time, and could they meet again the following day? As an afterthought, she added:

 _I would also like to talk about what you told me about the man I'm to marry. The account of your friendship from his lips seems at odds with your own, such that I cannot reconcile them._

With that, she folded the paper, slipped it into an envelope, and then sealed it with some wax and her signet. She then waited for Magda to come for it.

Bridget was very quiet during dinner, thinking of her conversation, of what the crown prince had said; for his part, he did not bring it up, for which she was grateful. Not that he would have been that tactless. She was content to listen to the conversation between her parents, Queen Elaine, and Crown Prince Mark. More accurately, half-listen. She was distracted.

She was thankful, therefore, when the meal concluded and their guests advised it would be an early night for them, that they wanted to retire early for a good night's sleep. She was convinced that it would be anything but an early night for her, but to her surprise the light of morning was glowing in her eyes in what seemed like no time at all.

She pushed her bedding aside and got to her feet; it was early yet, too early to have expected a reply already. Or so she thought.

Magda came in—perhaps because she'd heard movement in the bedchamber—with a smile. She bore an envelope, sealed with a familiar mark on the wax. "I'll leave you to read it."

As soon as Magda left, Bridget tore open the wax seal and read it. And then she read it again.

 _Princess—_

 _I will be at the usual meeting place at 10, but I cannot stay for long. Try not to be late._

 _Daniel, Lord Cleaver_

It was much shorter and far more formal than he had ever written to her since they had begun to correspond in this clandestine way. And curt; no affection came through in his words or their tone. In its own way, these things served to confirm her worst fears.

 _And_ , she thought in annoyance, _rather impudent for_ _him_ _to tell_ _me_ _not to be late. And him only a baron_.

…

 _There she goes again._

As he ate the breakfast that had been brought up to their apartments, he watched from his window the streak of pale blue dashing down the path. His hackles rose, and he set his serviette aside. His mother, who sat across from him at the table, furrowed her brow. "What is it?"

"I'll be back soon."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said. And it probably was nothing—he had never known Lord Cleaver to intrude where he was not welcome—but he wasn't about to take chances… or let Cleaver talk her into believing that his own account had been the true one.

Casually he strolled out into the garden and down the path, past the lake and around the curve. The gazebo was in sight, and from the looks of it, it was unoccupied, but Mark knew better. He decided to come up along the side instead of down the centre path, which would have made him very visible, and along the side that he knew did not lead to the path to the door with the gate that Cleaver would be exiting from. Mark didn't want to encounter the man unless it was necessary.

He heard voices as he approached.

"So you'll forgive me if the discrepancy is more than I'm willing to overlook. _Can_ you reconcile it?"

It was the princess speaking, and Mark noticed that Cleaver was not overflowing with protest. "I'm not sure what I can say," he said at last. "Once again it's my word against his, and who's going to believe a baron against a crown prince?"

"It's not that I believe him over you," came the princess' modulated voice; it was calm, but it was clear that she was simmering underneath, which surprised him, honestly. "But his story fits your personalities and reputations."

"You hardly know Mark."

"That's Crown Prince Mark to you," she said haughtily. "And could not fathom for a moment him in your place, joyful that I am to wed so I will give in at last."

There was a long, tense silence, and then she spoke again.

"I'll thank you to return my key."

Another brief silence, then the scuffing of boots on the ground; Mark was on high alert. Was he making some kind of move on her, to attack? But then he heard him sigh softly and say, "Here you are, your royal highness."

"Thank you," she said. "My best wishes on your business out of the kingdom. You are free to leave and continue your preparations."

"May I offer my congratulations on your impending nuptials," said Cleaver in return, a coolness in his voice that hinted of resignation. "Good day."

More footsteps, and Cleaver exited, turning off and towards the door. In a few moments, when she heard the door clang shut, she also came out, key in hand, presumably to lock the door in his wake. At last he came out from behind the gazebo and followed her.

"Princess Bridget," he said, so as not to startle her. It wasn't successful.

The key fell from her hand as she turned to him. He bent without second thought to pick it up and gave it back to her.

"What on earth are you doing here?"

"I saw you on the path and knew what you were doing," he said. "I knew who you were coming out to meet. So I thought—"

"I don't need looking after," she interrupted.

"I never said you did," he said. "I don't trust _him_." He gestured towards the palace. "Allow me to walk with you."

She pursed her lips, then nodded.

As they walked the path, she said, "The ball is in two days."

"Ah," he said. With a half-smile, he said, "I suppose we shall have to dance."

"I suppose," she said. He shot a glance her way. She didn't seem amused; maybe she hadn't seen his smile.

"I'm good at dancing," he said. "You don't have to worry for the state of your feet."

She said nothing more, not until they reached the portico. "My feet thank you in advance," she said quietly, then bowed her head once, then turned and walked off in the direction of where her apartments were.

He supposed he ought to go and finish the meal he'd left behind. And as he did, he realised he was no closer to figuring her out.


	2. Chapter 2: Shall We Dance?

**A Fairy Tale Wedding**

By S. Faith, © 2016  
Words: 31,210  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Shall We Dance?**

 **The night of the ball**

Mark, Crown Prince of Huntingdon, was grateful that his most formal princely livery was more than suitable for the occasion of a ball. He stood before the full-length mirror as his valet, Giles, attended to every button and crease.

"You look very dashing," said his mother. "I wish your father could've made the trip—he'd have loved to partake in this joyous day."

"He'll be well enough for the wedding," said Mark, turning to look at her. She looked resplendent in a deep red velvet gown, her more formal jewel-studded crown set upon her head; he couldn't imagine a woman upon whom a crown looked more natural. "That is a beautiful gown, and you look stunning," he said.

"You flatter me, my dear," she said, though she was obviously pleased to receive such a compliment. "Save words like 'stunning' for your betrothed."

"You've seen her?"

"Not yet," said Elaine. "But I have seen the gown."

Within a quarter of an hour, he was on the way to escorting his mother to the grand ballroom, timing the entrance such that a good majority of the attendees were already present. They came down the main staircase—as broad as two carriages were wide and decorated with sky blue satin garlands and white roses—as honoured guests, with appreciative gazes and respectful bows from all as they were received at the door to the ballroom by Queen Pamela. Before Mark had a chance to turn back to look the way they had just come, they heard gasps and murmurs. That was when he turned. That was when he saw her.

The blue satin that she wore matched the garland, and it was a blue that suited her exceedingly. The bodice of the gown fitted to her very closely from shoulders and arms, down through to her hips, then cascaded down in a flare to her feet. Embedded amongst the folds were pinpoints of shining light, something like gems sewn into the fabric that sparkled when she moved. The generous cut of the collar highlighted her figure, particularly her cleavage, in a way that the other gowns and dresses he had seen her in over the previous days had not.

As she drew closer—escorted by her father, he only just now realised—he saw that she wore the finest of silver chains about her neck, a simple pendant nestled amongst the expanse of creamy skin. Her hair was swept up, further enhancing the graceful curve of her neck; from her ears dangled delicate diamond drops. Atop her head, amongst the blonde curls, was a beautiful, shimmering coronet, a lesser twin to her mother's own crown.

She was smiling, too; it was genuine, not plastered on at all, but neither was it fawning or simpering. In fact, it almost seemed as if she was looking a little… smug. And then he realised she looked smug because of the way his own gaze had lingered upon her. He glanced away, then back again as she stood beside him.

The assembled guests were also completely silent, probably in awe of how beautiful she looked. Automatically, he reached his hand forward to take her gloved one, then bowed deeply to kiss the back of it. Entranced by the perfume coming up through the fine silk, he lingered; he realised this as the crowd murmured around them. He released her hand then stood upright, trying to maintain composure, realising quite abruptly that he needed to.

"Your royal highness," he said to her stoically.

She in turn dropped her hands to her side, grasped her skirts, and deeply curtsied, affording him a view down the front of her dress, away from which he tried (and failed) to avert his gaze. But when she raised her gaze again, he met it squarely with his own.

Her lips quirked in a little smile. "I believe we are expected to lead the guests into the ballroom."

"Let's not keep them waiting." He reached for her hand again, and when she gave it to him, he took it and placed it in the crook of his elbow. They turned and processed into the ballroom, with the guests following; it flowed as smoothly as clockwork, as if they had been doing this all of their lives, as if everything had been in rehearsal for this moment.

Keeping with the theme, the ballroom was decked out in sky blue and white roses. As they came in, the music kicked up, beautiful, harmonic strings; he took her hand and then led her into a dance, placing the other hand upon her waist as he turned her around.

Other couples followed suit. He became instantly aware of the warmth of her body beneath his hand as they turned, as he looked at her, studied her pink lips, her bright blue eyes. He also realised he should, perhaps, say something.

"You look lovely," he said, then immediately regretted it. "Beautiful," he corrected; thinking of what his mother said, he further added, "In fact, stunning."

He felt rather than heard her chuckle. "Thank you for the clarification," she said. "You don't look so bad, yourself."

He thought perhaps she was teasing him, and he offered a smile, albeit reserved. It would have been unbecoming, after all, to begin grinning like a fool simply because he was dancing with the prettiest girl with whom he had ever partnered. And yes, consciously perhaps, he did admit she was the prettiest, and that he was attracted to her. It boded well for their marriage, even if their personalities didn't exactly mesh. Perhaps producing heirs would be more than just a duty, after all.

"Thank you, your royal highness," he said.

She leaned in closer, dropped her voice. "You know," she said, "I think at this stage, being that we are betrothed and all, that you should feel free to call me by my given name when we are together."

…

There was one thing she never expected of the crown prince: that she would have liked being in his arms, liked being led around the dance floor by him. Make that two: when she leaned in close to confide that he could drop some of the formality between them, she never would have guessed that he would have smelled so nice. Hints of the deep woods, of spruce and juniper…

"As should you," he said at last, and she leaned away again.

When the song ended, he stepped back, bowing to her; she knew that they were expected to socialise, to dance with others, but she found herself wishing that she could have had another dance. This surprised her, given that the time they had spent in each others' proximity over the last few days had been in cool silence. Maybe it was because of Lord Cleaver, at least on her part; there were things about him that she certainly missed, and she was sad, but not nearly as sad as she thought she would have been. The way he had misled her, had planned on taking advantage of her… it soured her memories, however nice they had been.

Before long, Bridget found herself in the company of Queen Elaine, who greeted her with a fond smile. "I hope that you're enjoying yourself," she said.

"I am, very much, and so everyone else seems to be, too," the queen said. In a more confidential tone, she said, "Even my son looks like he is, and that's something."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes," she said. "He's dancing far more than he usually does, even if it is only with those he must." Queen Elaine smiled; Bridget tried to maintain control of her features. Had he only danced with her because he must? Queen Elaine continued, "You seem to be having a grand time."

"I am," she said, and she was, even if dancing with her was only Mark's duty. "I do so love to dance."

"It's clear," she said. After a pause, she said, "I hope you enjoyed dancing with Mark."

"Oh, yes, I did," she said.

At that moment, one of Bridget's oldest friends, Thomas, came to ask for a dance, and with a smile she accepted. She had always liked dancing with him; he was one of the most talented dancers in the entire kingdom. He was also one of her closest confidants, though she had not seen him since her engagement.

"So," said Thomas, "is your dashing Lord Cleaver here this evening? Haven't seen him if is he."

"He is most assuredly not."

Thomas blinked in surprise at the sharpness of her tone. "Why not? I thought you were in l—"

She shushed him. "I thought that I was," she said. "But when I told him I was getting married, he was only happy that it would mean I would lie with him. Then, when I found out that he has a history with Crown Prince Mark, when I asked about it, he lied to me. I won't have that kind of deception."

"Off with his head," hissed Thomas, which made her laugh. He was good at making her laugh, and she needed it at that moment.

"Pardon me."

The two of them turned to see the crown prince himself. She smiled, but was not feeling generous about him at that moment, after his mother's disclosure.

"May I cut in?"

"Of course, your royal high—" began Thomas, stepping back, looking terrified by Mark. Bridget interrupted.

"I'll finish this dance with my friend, Lord Coles, your royal highness."

Mark was clearly not used to being told 'no', and it showed in his expression.

"It's all right," Thomas said. "We'll speak later." He bowed to Mark, then retreated.

Bridget turned fiery eyes towards her betrothed, but said nothing, just stepped into his arms for the dance. Despite her annoyance, his hand on her waist was extraordinarily distracting.

"How do you know Lord Coles?" he asked.

"We have been friends for many years," she said.

"Just friends," he said.

"Yes," she said, then realised he was sounding a bit… "Wait. Are you jealous?"

"Not jealous. Just concerned."

"Concerned about what, exactly?"

"Whether your friendship with Lord Coles is anything like the one you had with…" He trailed off, clearly aware that he might have overstepped his bounds.

"If we weren't in the middle of a ballroom," she said in a quiet, measured voice, staring him straight in the eye, "in the middle of some of the most revered members of the kingdom's populace, I'd slap you for that. And then perhaps I'd do it again."

His gaze did not waver, nor did he flinch. He said at last, "That was uncalled for, and I am sorry. Please accept my apology."

"You're right. It was," she said. "And apology accepted."

The song ended; everyone politely clapped. "Would you care to dance another?" he said, out of the blue. "Or perhaps we could break for refreshment?"

The solicitousness especially surprised her; she supposed he was attempting to make up for his rude comment. "Another dance, I think," she said. "I'm curious to know if there are any surprises awaiting me after we wed."

The music began again, and once more he swept her into a dance. She noticed that beginning the rhythm of dancing again had bought him a little time, and he was clearly using it to think. Even then, he asked only, "You'll have to clarify what you mean by 'surprises'."

"Come now," she said, smiling. "Surely you have a female _friend_."

She saw the line of his jaw tense. "We are not particularly close friends," he said after several beats of the music. "I do not intend to continue the friendship."

"Once we are wed?"

"Once I am returned home."

Curious. "Is that so? Why?"

"It's an unnecessary complication."

She pondered the meaning. Did he mean it would be too difficult to maintain a mistress on the side? "That is an interesting way to phrase it."

"I don't have any feelings for her."

She didn't respond. What a foreign concept it was to her, to take a mistress and not care for the lady in the least… why else would one take a mistress if not for love, for genuine affection? Was he just that emotionally cold? She felt sorry for him, if so. She supposed she should get used to it, though. She would _have_ to get used to it. He was about to marry her, and he would surely be doing more than kissing her.

While she was lost in her thoughts, he seemed content to allow her to do so. Or perhaps he was lost in his own. In either case, they did not speak again until the music ended, and he gestured towards where the refreshments were. "You look like you are in need of refreshment," he said. He offered an arm to her, and she accepted, too distracted even to wonder exactly what he'd meant by that.

She took her seat in the refreshment area—for there were comfortable chairs reserved for members of the royalty—while he went to get a drink to bring to her. He returned promptly with a glass of wine and a slice of cake, which he set on a small table beside her. "There you are."

"Thank you," she said, then reached for the wine. Never had she needed it more.

"Are you all right?" he asked after some moments in silence.

"Just fine," she said.

More silence, then, "Does it bother you that I had a mistress? Or are you somehow troubled that I'm going to end it with her?" She couldn't believe he would bring this up now, but he supposed they were separated from the others by dint of their station, and he spoke in a low tone. "I would have expected you'd be pleased I planned to end it."

"I'm troubled," she began, equally quietly, "because I had always learnt that royals reserve their loyalty and duty for their spouse, but love for their lovers."

It seemed he did not know what to say to that. "Who in the world told you such a thing?" he asked, at long last. "My mother and father love each other dearly."

She felt her face blaze with the heat of her embarrassment. She felt foolish—of course, her own parents loved each other, too. She couldn't imagine her father taking a mistress. The thought repulsed her.

"Was it Lord Cleaver?" he asked.

"No!" she said quickly, perhaps too emphatically.

He offered a small, sympathetic smile. "I think perhaps he had an ulterior motive, there."

He was probably right, but she said nothing to him on the subject, just focused on drinking from her wine goblet, her thoughts turning over in her head. "So why, then?" she asked. "Why have a mistress you don't love, or even feel a fondness for her? What's in it for you, or for her?"

The timing of her question was poor, she supposed, as he began to cough and choke on his own wine, which he had begun to sip. "Pardon?" he asked, when he could draw breath again.

"I asked what was—"

"I heard you."

"Then why—"

" _Please_ ," he interrupted. "Enough. This is a subject I am not prepared to discuss here or now."

Intimacy with a lady that he did not love, just for the act? She did not understand, not at all. As she knew it, the act of intercourse was something to tolerate for the duty of providing a child, all the more tolerable when performed with a partner that was loved and cared about.

"I remind you, sir, that _you_ brought it up," she said. "I only wonder why you would shoulder such an unpleasant duty if you did not have feelings, did not love the lady, that's all."

…

Mark did not quite know what to say, and he was sure this was clear from his expression. It was expected that she would be naïve about men—and he was pleased that she was still innocent in that respect, given her association with Cleaver—but that she would speak of such things to him in a public arena….

Well, as she had pointed out, he had been the one to bring it up. And since she was innocent, she did not realise exactly to what she was referring.

"I wonder, too," he said at last, looking into his glass, then sipped his wine.

After a moment, she said, "The wine is very good. And so is the cake."

He looked back up to her; her expression was wide-eyed and curious, as if she were testing him to see if maybe she'd said the wrong thing. "It is," he said. "Very fine, all of it. The ball has been spectacular. Truly."

"I'm pleased to hear," she said, relaxing, smiling at last.

A voice interrupted them just then. His mother. And she looked a bit upset. "Mark."

Instantly he was on his feet. "What is it?"

"I've just received an express," she said quietly. "There is some concern for your father, and the medics want us home for moral support. We must cut our visit short."

"Oh, no," said Bridget, raising a hand to her mouth.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to ruin the night, the celebration."

"No. Don't apologise," said Mark. "What about the carriage? Are we to make the journey tonight?"

"No, we'll leave in the morning, first thing," she said. "The staff are helping to prepare the carriage. I just wanted to let you know." She smiled sympathetically. "And I _have_ ruined the night."

"Please don't apologise," Bridget said, taking her hand and grasping it. "I'm glad to know so that I can help in any way I can. We all can."

"Thank you, my dear," she said. "Right now, I think keeping my son company would be of the greatest service. There really is nothing more he can do." At this last sentence, Elaine met Mark's eyes, and he nodded in reassurance; she knew him well, knew he would try to help with the preparation.

For the remainder of the evening, she kept her word, stayed by his side, engaging in far safer topics for conversation. The last of the guests left well after midnight, and the princess was determined to see them off, so he in turn kept her company. Even her parents and his mother had made their excuses and retired for the evening. By the time he decided it was time to retire, they were left with servants who had begun to tidy things up.

"Thank you," he said, "for helping keep my mind from worry."

"I was happy to do so, Mark." At the use of his given name she smiled. "You ought to go get your rest. I expect you shall be leaving very early, directly after your breakfast, to get back to your father as soon as you can."

He nodded; he would not be surprised if they did. "Allow me to walk you to your rooms."

She smiled; she hardly needed it, but it seemed the courteous thing to do. "All right."

The walk was relatively short and spent in silence, though not entirely uncomfortable; in the few days he had been with her, he was not any closer to feeling like he knew her any better, at least before tonight. What he did know, he was intrigued by, and had learned the most about her that very evening, like how she even now was deep in thought, idly pulling off her gloves, despite not being safely quartered in her chambers. He was also attracted to her; there was no question of that after this evening.

"You know," she said, "the next time that I see you will very likely be on our wedding day."

"I am looking forward," he said, for he found he truly was.

"I will say my goodbyes to you now, then," she said as they arrived to her chamber door. She offered a smile, and it was thoroughly genuine, shining through the dimness, the quiet of the hallway, candlelight from the wall sconce lighting her blonde hair, causing it to shine like spun gold. "Try not to worry too much. I'm sure it will be all right."

"I hope you are correct," he said. "Goodnight, and goodbye… Bridget."

He was quite unsure what protocol required next; the fact that they were alone, that she was not chaperoned, that she wore no gloves, was unusual enough. So he decided that, rather than bowing and kissing her hand, that he would gently peck her on the cheek.

The heeled shoes that she wore meant they were closer to the same height, though he still had several inches over her. He leaned forward and down, then, to deliver that departing kiss; close to his ear, he heard her quietly say, "Oh."

Her warm breath was on his cheek; he realised this in realising that he had not yet, after seconds longer than he should have, drawn back. The attraction he felt had flared a hundredfold, and he found it impossible to move back. To be this close to her. To draw her perfume in with his breath.

That was when he felt it, unmistakeable; her soft lips brushing against his own cheek, felt the light exhalation of her breath. He turned his head, half in surprise, half in utter reflex, and placed his lips on her own for a kiss.

She said it again—"Oh"—though it was not in alarm, for unambiguously she kissed him back. He shouldn't have done what he did next, but he did, and there was nothing about it he regretted: he placed his hands upon her, then drew her into his arms, pulling her up against him, parting his lips in an effort to invite a deepening of the kiss.

When she said "Oh" for a third time, it was into his mouth; he kissed her deeply but tenderly, and again she responded fervently. His hands spanned her silk-clad back, moving from her shoulders to her hips.

It was the presence of a solid object—in actual fact, the wall just outside of her chamber door—that snapped him from the fog of his desire. He released her suddenly from the embrace and stepped back, glad at least she had the support of the wall behind her, because she looked flushed and somewhat dazed.

"I apologise," he said, his voice surprisingly husky to even his own ears. "That was taking undue liberties, and I am sorry."

"Please, sir, there is no need to apologise," she said quietly, meeting his gaze. "Especially if it helps you to forget your worries, or consoles you in some way." She stepped forward, placing her naked hand tenderly on his face. "Goodnight," she said. "Until next we meet."

With that she withdrew into her chambers. The gentle thud of her door closing brought him back to his senses. He was still at a loss for what had just happened with her. Never could he recall losing such control when he was alone in the presence of a beautiful girl, not even with his mistress. He turned, then made the short walk from her quarters to his own. In a way, he was grateful that they would be returning home early in the morning, because if he had days and days more in close proximity to her after what they had just shared, he was sure he would have gone mad.

…

 _Oh my God._

When Bridget closed her chamber door, she leaned back upon it as if to buttress her resolve to stay put, not leave again, run to him, and beg him to kiss her again.

But that wasn't right, nor was it proper. Even if it was stirring feelings within her soul that not even a man she had sworn she'd loved had stirred. How had that happened with just a single kiss?

Finally she pushed away, heading towards her bed; fortunately, getting out of her gown did not require the assistance of her lady's maid. With trembling fingers she plucked open the ties and slipped out of the gown, pulled the pins out of her hair, gently drew the coronet up and off of her head.

She laid the gown over the back of the chair before her dressing table, laid the coronet down on the dressing table, and slipped into a simple chemise in order to go to sleep. However, sleep was elusive, for she was plagued by a singular, all-consuming thought: that the duty that was expected of her in the marriage bed might not be a duty at all. It might actually be something to which she could look forward with a breathless anticipation.

…

"You have been awfully quiet since your return."

Mark turned, saw the slender form of his mistress silhouetted in the light. Lady Natasha, young widow of the late Lord Glenville. Tall, lithe, and with her glossy dark hair, dark brown eyes, and sharp, well-defined features, she was considered one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom. He now had to tell her he had no further need of her.

"My father was ill," he said, "and I've been busy making preparations."

"Ah, yes, your _wedding_ ," she said with a smile. "To the princess of Grafton Underwood."

"Yes." He kept his face neutral.

"I am pleased to hear your father's much improved," she said. "But I doubt you asked me here to talk about him."

"You'd be correct," he said. "Please, have a seat." He gestured towards an armchair.

"Ah," she said. "I don't suppose you've called me here for a… social call, either."

"No," he said, sitting in another chair across from her. "I'm afraid I must bring our involvement to an end."

Her precisely shaped brows lifted. "Is this at the request of the princess?" she asked. "You know I'm perfectly willing to—"

"No." He considered his words. "It feels like the right thing to do, to not betray the vows I'm making."

"You don't even know her," she said. "It's an arranged marriage, for pity's sake." After a pause, she added, "If only you and I could—"

"Please," he said. "I don't wish to drag this out any longer than I must."

"It's all right," she said. "I understand."

"Thank you for that."

But then she continued. "I never really thought I could have competed with another royal, anyway."

He said nothing. He was content to let her believe whatever she needed to be to make it as clean as possible. He smiled a tight smile. "Until next we meet."

She, too, smiled a thin, joyless smile. "Until then."

Lady Natasha rose as did he; she bowed deferentially, then she took her leave of him. He in turn left the room to go and see his father, Malcolm, who was up and out of bed, and sitting by the window, enjoying the sunshine that streamed in, as he partook of his midday meal of cold meat pie. "Mark, my boy!" he said with a cheerful smile. "Good to see you."

"Hello, Father," he said. The improvement in his appearance in the week since they had returned from Grafton Underwood was marked; his cheeks were pink, his eyes shining with returning health. "I see you've got your appetite back."

"I do indeed," he said. "After I'm done, I'm taking a tour around the palace grounds with your mother. I'll need my stamina for the long journey down the aisle at the cathedral."

Mark smiled. The fact that he was making jokes was a good sign; Mark patted his father's shoulder affectionately.

"How are the plans coming along?"

"They're going well, from what I hear," Mark said, sitting at the table with his father. "I don't have much to do with it, and my opinion is not often required. Mother insisted on overseeing things on this end, but her top advisors are handling the arrangements and communicating with the advisors who are doing the planning for her royal highness in Grafton Underwood."

"Splendid, splendid," he said, then picked up his tankard and had a long draw of what Mark supposed was lager of some sort. Definitely feeling improved. "And everything will be ready in a month's time?"

"I am quite confident that it will," he said. At first, Mark hadn't cared one way or another about when the wedding would occur, but he found himself eager to see the day come, based on the strength of that single kiss.

 _Single_ , he thought, _but of a wonderfully long duration._

"Quite a little beauty, the princess," said Malcolm. "That's what your mother's told me. Good head on her shoulders, and excellent child-bearing hips. All you _really_ need from your wife."

He was glad, and not for the first time, that his mother did the bulk of the public speaking, because his father was an expert at meaning well but saying precisely the wrong thing. Like now. "If you say so, Father." He smiled, then decided to take his leave. "Enjoy your perambulations later."


	3. Chapter 3: The Wedding

**A Fairy Tale Wedding**

By S. Faith, © 2016  
Words: 31,210  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

(Time for sexytimes!)

* * *

 **Chapter 3: The Wedding**

 **The Autumnal Equinox—the wedding day**

Before Mark knew it, the month had slipped by, and the day of the wedding was upon them. The wedding party from Grafton Underwood was being housed in the palace, had arrived three days prior, but the bride was being kept away from wherever Mark and his family were, as per tradition. He thought it was a bit silly given the circumstances, even as he admitted that being denied the sight of her, the chance to talk to her, was exciting his interest more than he wanted to admit.

He was dressed in the finest regalia he had ever worn, tailored especially for the day. He wore a closely fitted jacket and trousers in charcoal grey, crisp white shirt under the jacket with only the collar showing; a crimson sash laid across his chest, and the broad band of a black leather belt encircled his waist. Over the left side of his chest was the regalia of the honours he had achieved in university, the study and practise of the law, an invaluable skill as a potential ruler of a kingdom.

Just before his departure to the cathedral, the crown was placed upon his head, the hand-embellished and embroidered cloak draped over his shoulders.

Of course, his brother had commentary to make. "You seem a bit more eager to take on this duty than you were before," he said. "Can it be that this marriage is something you are no longer just resigned to do?"

Mark pursed his lips.

Peter slapped his thigh and laughed. "You have nothing to say in response because I'm right."

They made it to the cathedral with time to spare; the roads between the palace and the cathedral were lined with spectators. He rode in one of the royal carriages, peering through the window, waving to the assembled, wearing the persona of the public figure as easily as he wore the cloak on his shoulders. His parents rode in their own carriage in front of him.

As he understood it, the princess and her family would come to the cathedral in their own royal carriages, and would arrive after the Huntingdon royal family. When he arrived, he was led to an area in which he could wait undisturbed. He had been through a rehearsal already, though not with the bride. As he waited, he found his anxiety growing ever so slightly… until it was time to go through the ceremony itself.

Just like that, the public persona enveloped him again; he straightened his shoulders, adjusted the bottom hem of his jacket, then strode out to take his place at the top of the aisle.

The cathedral was packed with invited guests, a sea of faces looking to him in rapt fascination. Affecting a detached demeanour, he gazed out over them, at least until the music began heralding the start of the ceremony.

There she was. Guided in by her father, she seemed to be wearing a veil from the top of her head down to her feet. He watched; it was his turn to be spellbound as the pair came closer. When they came closer, King Colin lifted the veil up and over; Mark realised then that the veil had simply blended into the skirt of her dress. At that moment he got a glimpse of the bodice, which fitted snugly to her. It was styled similarly to the ball gown she had worn that he had seen her in, except in ivory silk, glittering crystal gems sewn into it. Her hair was drawn up from her face then cascaded down in spiralling curls; her coronet was gleaming with gems.

As she came forward, he stretched out his hand towards her, which she accepted.

The ceremony itself was brief and to the point; there was an exchange of vows and rings as tokens of fidelity and commitment to the unity of kingdoms, then signed the documents as required before a brief, chaste kiss to conclude it. They processed down the aisle towards the front of the cathedral to the celebratory applause of those in attendance.

They were whisked away in his carriage, of which she clearly approved, heading back to the palace where the reception ball would be held. She peered with interest at the crowds lining the street, waving as he did to them. When the crowds disappeared in favour of passing landscape, she looked to where he sat beside her, and smiled. "You look very handsome," she said. It was the first time she had spoken to him that wasn't part of the ceremony. The first time she had spoken to him since he had seen her last, after they had kissed in the hallway.

"And you look even more beautiful than you did the night of the ball."

"You're very kind," she said. "Thank you."

He said nothing more, nor did she, for the remainder of the ride; he just looked at her appreciatively, admiringly, and he flattered himself in thinking that she was looking at him in a similar way. Before long, the carriage came to a halt, the door opened, and the footman helped the princess out and onto her feet.

"The palace looks gorgeous," she said as she looked up onto the façade, which had been decked out for the celebration with bunting: blue and white in honour of the bride, burgundy and black for the groom. Neither had had a good look at it before now.

He held out his hand. "Let's go inside." She gave her hand to him; he tucked it into his elbow, then led her inside.

Inside they were greeted by one of the servants, who led them directly to the grand ballroom. "Would you like a beverage? Something to eat?" He asked this of her, as if he were hosting her as a guest at a party; it still didn't quite feel real that she was now his wife.

Adjustments obviously would have to be made.

"I'm parched. That would be wonderful," she said. "Thank you."

He went to find her something cold and refreshing, and by the time he returned to her with a couple of goblets of cold lemon-water, his parents had returned from the cathedral, and were just introducing her to his brother. They all looked like they couldn't be happier.

"What a wonderful, touching ceremony," said Queen Elaine. "And my dear, you are the picture of regal beauty."

 **The wedding night**

"Thank you."

Bridget took the goblet from her new husband, taking a draw to refresh herself; she was terribly glad she looked the picture of regal beauty, because inside she was a thrumming bundle of nerves. The day had, so far, flowed as smooth as satin, but for some reason she was extremely anxious.

Perhaps it was anticipation of the night ahead. Not that she was worried that he would be cruel or cold. On the contrary. Before she had spent that brief amount of time with him, she had almost expected he would be thus, given his reputation for being taciturn and unapproachable; the fact that he revealed himself to have another side altogether had been a complete surprise.

A side that could stir her in ways she couldn't quite explain.

Her parents arrived then, as did her brother Jamie, who had arrived from wherever he had been with a day to spare. It felt just as strange to introduce her brother to her husband as it had been to be introduced as 'wife' to Mark's brother Peter, with the impressive title of the Duke of Eastport. She liked Peter from the moment she met him; he had an easy smile and an open, friendly manner, and even was a little self-deprecating about his title: "I'm sure Eastport's a lovely place; I've never actually been there, though. They wouldn't know me from the average fishmonger." He was so very different from his brother, and she supposed he was very popular with the court (and especially the ladies of the court).

His brother Mark, so reserved and cool in the eyes of the masses, was not so easy to read. And she found herself eager to be given the chance.

Within the hour more guests came; the musicians began to play, the food was served, and the evening was in full gear. After multiple courses of sumptuous food came the dancing—very few with her husband, much to her surprise—and after the dancing came their cue to take their leave.

She said good night to her mother and father, and to his as well; once they had gone, he led her past the guards and upstairs, then handed her off to her lady's maid, who was ready to prepare her for her wedding night. Two other girls helped her out of the gown, then took it away for storage. Once they were alone, Magda eased the coronet up and into its protective chest, then pulled the pins that held up her hair in order to brush it out onto her shoulders, then drew it into a plait that she pinned up and off of her shoulders.

Magda then led her to a hot bath that the girls had drawn. They helped to bathe her, then dry her and otherwise ready her for the night, perfuming her with soft powder and dressing her in a soft silk nightie. Magda then helped Bridget slip into the dressing gown, unpinned the plait, then brushed it out around her shoulders again.

"There," she said, setting down the brush. "You're ready."

She wasn't sure she was, but it was as ready as she was ever going to be.

Magda led her out of the room, and into the hallway towards the chamber door where she knew him to be waiting. Faintly she could hear the music drifting from the ballroom; their wing was private, though, so she did not need to worry about an errant guest wandering up uninvited. When they got closer to the door, Magda curtseyed, then withdrew.

The door opened. Taking it to be an invitation, she stepped forward, and that was when she saw him standing there, his face bathed in shadow, a genial smile playing on his lips. "I thought I heard you," he said. "Please, come in." He stepped back to allow her in.

He wore a long brocaded dressing gown, tied at the waist with a sash. Seeing the peek of his chest made her instantly wonder what he wore beneath, if anything. This thought made her flush pink. After passing through a small anteroom, they entered the bedchamber itself, and it was lushly decorated and enormous, bathed in the gentle light of candles and the fire crackling in the hearth. He gestured towards a table, where a small decanter sat beside two tiny glasses. "I thought I might offer a nightcap," he said. "If you would like one."

She nodded.

He poured what looked to her to be a very thick chocolate liquid. "I had heard how much you liked chocolate and hazelnut," he said, "so I called upon the royal distillery to create this for you." He then turned and handed her one of the small glasses, and lifted his own. "To the beginning of our new life."

She lifted hers and sipped; the liqueur was incredibly delicious, creamy, rich, and very flavourful, and she drank the whole thing at once. He, though, seemed not to like it as much, and pulled a face; he noticed her noticing.

"It was a bit sweeter than I expected," he admitted. "How did you like it?"

"I liked it very much," she said. With a small smile, she added, "I'll finish yours if you don't want it."

He chuckled, then handed her the second glass. "Here you are."

She finished that one too—they were minuscule, after all—and resisted the urge to swipe the inside with a finger to get out the rest and lick it off. "Thank you," she said as he took the glasses back and set them down again.

And then he just looked at her for a long while. It was in appreciation, certainly, but she didn't know if she should say something, or do something. "Shall we sit by the—" she began, but he interrupted softly.

"I can't decide if you look more lovely now or when we met at the altar," he said.

"Thank you," she said, blushing fiercely, then sighed a little. "Honestly, I don't know what to do next."

He didn't say anything for several long moments. "If you want to sit by the fire," he said, "we may."

She did so, perching on a sofa at the fireside.

"You're not cold, are you?"

"I'm fine."

He sat beside her. "You're trembling." She hadn't even noticed; she leaned into the warmth of the fire. Tenderly, he added, "I hope you're not afraid."

She turned and looked at him; he was all concern and warmth, but still she snapped, "No, of course not."

"Of course not," he repeated, leaning back against the back of the sofa. "Relax, then." There was humour in his voice. "I'm not going to bite you."

She turned back to the fire, but did allow herself to lean against the arm of the sofa, then against the back of the sofa, close enough to feel his warmth, but not actually touching him. She realised that with the way she was acting, she did seem like she was afraid. She realised that maybe she actually was. Maybe a little.

She looked at him again, then turned to better face him. _I'm not afraid_ , she thought. _Let me prove it_.

He brought his hand up, brushed his fingers along her shoulder, then her face. She drew in a deep breath, to steady herself, then put her hand on top of his, leant into his touch.

He drew his hand away, then placed it around her shoulders, pulling her to sit closer, drawing her up against him. His warmth, the closeness of him, was somehow reassuring and familiar; she could not help thinking of the kiss in the hallway outside of her chambers. She placed a hand against his chest, rested her cheek against him; she felt his breath against her hair, felt his fingers brushing against her arm through the light fabric of the dressing gown.

His actions did have the intended effect. She did feel less nervous, felt herself relax into him, felt his heartbeat under her hand. Another pervasive sensation was washing over her, though; that same sensation she had felt when they had kissed.

"Better?" he asked quietly.

"I told you I'm fine," she said.

She felt him laugh low in his throat. "Of course you are." His hand came up to stroke her hair. "Just fine." He shifted a little, and she felt a gentle touch against her temple. His lips, brushing against her there, zinging sensation along her skin, causing her breath to catch. "You keep saying that, but you have nothing to fear."

As he placed another kiss on her forehead, her lids felt heavy; he drew gentle fingers over her face to her chin, lifting it up. She looked at him again as he shifted beside her, turning slightly. "I know," she said. And she did.

And that was when he kissed her again on the lips, tender, chaste kisses, just as he had done the first time. But she felt his hand slip down from cradling her face, to her shoulder, to rest on her hip; nothing was between them now but a few light layers of silk.

She parted her lips, inviting another deep kiss as they had shared before; his fingers pressed into her hip as he accepted this invitation, covering her mouth with his own. She arched up into him with a sigh as the kiss deepened even still, his tongue trailing along her lower lip, teasing ever so slightly.

Then his hand moved again, catching her slightly unawares, causing her to suck in a sharp breath as his hand met with her breast, which was far more tender and sensitive than she could have ever guessed. And then he pressed that hand against her, running a thumb over a suddenly-hard tip.

She heard a moan—then realised it was her own.

Fingers pulled at the edge of her dressing gown, played at the edge of her nightgown, slipping down under the fabric.

He whispered her name. Then he kissed her chin, her jaw, her throat. His hand was now on her knee, on her thigh, pushing up the hem as he laid her back against the arm of the sofa. His hand was gentle but insistent there, raking his nails against the tender skin, shifting upward again.

But then he stopped. He drew back, meeting her eye.

"Why did you stop?" she asked, suddenly worried that she had somehow not met his standards… but he smiled tenderly.

"Because I'm sure we could be more comfortable elsewhere," he said. He shifted again, slipped his arm under her, then swooped her up off the sofa.

He set her down again to stand on her unsteady feet, which confused her. But then he leant aside to push the bedspread and sheets aside, then turned to push the dressing gown from her shoulders.

Then he reached down for her nightgown hem, and drew that up and off of her.

He regarded her with obvious appreciation of her as she stood there, completely bared to him. He reached to touch her again, but she held up her hand.

She thought it only right, only fair, that she should do to him what he had done to her. She vowed not to betray her ignorance of the male body, though the slight tremble in her hand as she reached to untie the sash around his waist gave her away.

With the sash undone, the sides of his dressing gown fell away, and it became immediately clear that he had not, in fact, worn anything beneath that dressing gown. What stunned her more, though, was the portion of his anatomy that seemingly had rose to attention since they had begun to kiss—she would have noticed it pushing out the front of his regalia, otherwise—which had emerged from between the halves of the brocaded dressing gown as if from behind a theatre curtain.

 _Oh my God_ , she thought. _That's got to go_ _where_ _, exactly?_

"Are you all right?"

And then she realised she had betrayed herself, after all, by covering her gaping mouth with a hand. "Sorry, yes," she said, shaking her head a little. "Just… unexpected."

He reached a hand forward, and she allowed him to take hers. "I'm sure it's shocking to a lady as yourself," he said quietly, stepping closer to her.

It was true; as a high-borne lady, she had no experience with the male body, except maybe when she and her brother had both been children, but that had been nothing like what was before her now.

"I hope you believe me though," he continued. "I won't hurt you."

She could not help but be sceptical given the evidence before her eyes, and it in all likelihood showed on her face, because he bent and kissed her, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her flush to him; the feeling of that firmness against her stomach took her aback, but the kiss soon had her head swimming in sensation. He directed her backwards to the bed; she felt the mattress against her legs. He let go of her.

"Go on," he said gently. "Climb in."

She sat down on the edge of the bed, then scooted back, slipping her legs under the bedclothes. When she looked up again, he was faced away, and he had slipped off his dressing gown; on display before her was his bared back, muscled and lean, and a tight, firm backside. It reminded her of the marble sculptures she had seen in the kingdom's art trust and gallery. Truly a thing of beauty. All she could think about was running her hand over the contours—

And then he was beside her again, seemingly so suddenly that she blinked with surprise. "All right?"

She nodded. Then she leaned and kissed him. Not a chaste kiss, either; still flooded with the heady sensation from the sofa, she was eager to pick up where they had left off. Eager for what was next, even if a bit uncertain exactly what that was.

Apparently, he was too. He pushed them back onto the pillows with a fierce kiss in return; his hand played upon her hip as he pulled up against her. Then his hand was on her backside, splayed and grasping, pulling her closer to him, as if that were possible.

His mouth was on her chin, her throat, her shoulder, and, to her surprise, her breast, teeth teasing and pulling at the point, causing her heart to race, causing her to moan; but this was nothing compared to when she felt his hand traverse between her thighs, felt his fingers teasing her through the wetness there.

She brought her own hand up to his back, traced a line along his spine, until she reached his buttocks, raking her nails over the skin, over the taut muscles there. He groaned, his mouth close to her ear again, as he pushed more insistently into the tenderness between her legs. She cried out a breathless, "Oh."

He turned her over, pulled himself onto her, settled between her thighs, slightly on his knees. "Bridget," he said quietly, gruffly. "I can't wait. I—gentle as I can. Trust me."

She nodded; she did.

He urged her legs apart, lifted her knees, then bent down over her. She was both eager and anxious, unsure what was to happen next, but having no reason to doubt his word when everything he'd told her had, so far, come to pass.

Then he was above her, bracing himself on one arm, then, after adjusting his position, two. And then she felt him press against her between her legs, and she gasped. He lowered his head and kissed her again, tenderly, then more urgently, before he thrust forward into her, breaching her maidenhead.

A low, guttural sound issued from his throat; she cried out at the sharpness of the sensation. It was not quite painful; it was entirely too pleasurable for that.

He thrust again. Then again, and again. She found that she was able to angle herself ever so slightly, amplifying the pleasure aspect to the point that she moaned, too. And then he thrust once more before going still and shuddering. He peppered her skin with small kisses; his breath came in hard, short pants. He moved to her side to rest on the mattress, but pulled her to him.

The first thing he asked was a solicitous, "Are you all right?"

"Mm-hmm," she managed; she was aching now, but it was a pleasant echo of the pain-pricked pleasure that she had just experienced.

He drew the duvet over their cooling bodies. His hand stroked her stomach lazily; clearly he was still catching his own breath, calming his own pulse. She turned her head to look at him, and he looked directly into her eyes. She supposed she had done all right, with the way he was caressing her now. She thought it was probably gauche to ask.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asked quietly.

"I said I'm all right," she said, then sighed; he was only looking after her well-being. "It only hurt a little, really."

He lifted his hand to brush fronds of hair from her face. "I'm glad." After a pause, he then said, "I hope that brought you at least a little pleasure."

She found a smile for him. "It did."

"In a little while," he said, "I hope I can bring you more—as much as you've brought me."

This intrigued her. "Why in a little while?" she asked. "Why not now?"

…

Of all of the things she could have said at that moment, that statement was the last thing he expected to hear. "Now?" he repeated.

"Well, yes," she said.

"I'm more than willing, but…" He trailed off. "I was giving you a little time."

"What for?"

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. No demure girl was she. Unsure what to say, he said nothing, just bent over and kissed her again, running his hand over her hip, then stomach, then cupping her breast. Soft and beautiful, and easily brought to attention by his fingers and thumb, his lips and teeth.

He heard her moan a little, felt her wriggle under his ministration; he turned his attention upon the other breast as his hand came around and held her backside. He squeezed gently, pulling her against him, moving his mouth to her hip, to her belly, pushing his tongue into her navel before kissing a trail between her breasts and back to her mouth again.

He was ready. It hadn't taken long, as beautiful and as desirable as she was, but he hoped this time he could sustain himself to bring her the ultimate pleasure. As before, he pulled himself between her legs, bracing himself with one arm; she lifted her knees in anticipation.

The second hand, though, he brought down to touch the tenderness between her thighs. He knew the moment he found that special spot—the one that the courtesan had given him instruction on, long ago—because of the way she gasped, then moaned at length, as he pressed it and stroked it.

Watching her react as she did, he was harder than ever, verging close to coming again. He couldn't wait.

"Do it," she commanded, much to his surprise. He settled down further, not ceasing his caress of her, then kissed her, drove forward and into her with much less restraint as he had the first time. He felt a modicum of regret as she cried out… at least until he realised it was a cry of pleasure, not pain.

He thrust again and again, touching her in counterpoint to each drive forward; her cries got louder in his mouth, her nails dug further into his shoulders, until she broke awake from their kiss, breathing hard, moaning low in her throat until at last—

From deep inside her he could feel the chain reaction begin, the waves of pleasure enveloping him; for his part he did not stop his own motion, and carried on until he could no longer resist the climax that overtook him. He tensed and thrust hard into her until he could no longer hold himself up; his arm gave way and he fell to the side. The way his legs were entangled with hers, he pulled her over with him so that she was atop him.

She was breathing as hard as he was, gulping and gasping, then lowered her head and kissed him.

He thought of the pitcher of water that he knew to be on the bureau, thought of how far away that water seemed. His hands ran over her back, over her backside, to cup and squeeze into the roundness there. She broke away, then rested her cheek against his, such that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his neck.

"If more people knew how good that could feel," she said in a raspy voice, "they'd just… do it all the time." She exhaled. "How many times could we do that in a day, do you think?"

He smiled, his face still against hers, stroked his hands up and down her back. The pull of sleep was strong after all of that exertion, but he resisted. "Can I bring you something? Water?"

She turned her head; he felt her fingers combing through his hair, and he turned his head a little to meet her gaze. "I'll have more of that liqueur," she said. "I could really use something to eat, too. I'm famished."

He laughed a little. He couldn't help it. "Yes, mistress," he said jokingly, turning to the side so that he could get out from under her, up out of bed and get her the things she wanted.

"Ooh," she said with a grin. "I like the way that sounds. You may continue to call me that."

He rose from the bed, the autumnal chill of the air almost shocking now that he was out from under the warm duvet. He went to the table, poured two large glasses of water, then gathered up a plate of bread, cheese, and fruit. After bringing it back to the bedside, he turned to pour her another small glass of the liqueur, then brought that to her, too, sitting on the edge of the bed to hand it to her.

"Thanks," she said, sitting up, pulling the sheet to her chest, reaching for a berry. "Now that the ceremony is behind me, _this_ —" He knew she meant consummating their relationship. "—is behind me, a huge weight's off of my shoulders. A _huge_ pressure." She took the water and gulped it, then took a piece of the bread with cheese for a bite, but froze before doing so.

He realised he had never seen a lady eat quite so voraciously, and he smiled; if he felt so hungry after such a physical exertion, why wouldn't she? He reached for some bread and cheese, too, then slipped beside her on the bed. He drank from his water glass, then set it on the table next to the bed. When he turned back, he saw she had picked the glass of liqueur up and was drinking from it, tipping the glass back to get as much out of it as possible. He was very pleased that she liked it so much.

That was not all he was pleased about. In all of the months he'd had Lady Natasha as a mistress, she had never responded in the way that his new wife had done, despite the declaration that she had loved him. In retrospect, perhaps she had only said it to try to secure a marriage. Whatever the case, he had enjoyed seeing Bridget respond as she had.

And he had certainly enjoyed her touch. He certainly looked forward to letting her explore, build up her confidence, and touch him as she chose to do. Was it normal to be stirred so much by a woman he had only really just gotten to know, and with whom he had only been intimate twice? Because he was so stirred. Perhaps the arranged marriage had been a blessing in disguise.

"You look thoughtful."

He realised she was watching him. "I was just telling myself how right you are," he said. "Though I suspect I was not feeling quite the same pressure as you."

She glanced down. "I suspect not. You have, after all, had a mistress." She picked at her berries, ate another. "I met her today. Lady Natasha of Glenwood."

"Glenville."

"Right." She smiled wanly. "Sorry. I met so many people today."

"It's all right."

Bridget went on, "She was very pleasant to me."

"She would be," he said. "She does very much want to stay in the good graces of her future sovereigns."

She smiled again. "Did she…" She paused, looking sheepish. "…teach you things?"

He shook his head; Lady Natasha had not had much to teach him. The courtesan's lessons would have, quite frankly, been wasted on her, a mere social climber. "I had… more formal instruction."

Her brows rose up in obvious surprise and curiosity. He suspected that the idea of intimate instruction was alien to her.

He explained: "A courtesan."

"Oh." She managed a smile. "Well, I do suppose there is an instinctive side to it all, but you would have needed to be a mind-reader to know—"

She stopped abruptly, but he suspected he already knew of what she was thinking, and the blush on her cheeks confirmed it: how he knew precisely where to touch to elicit that response. He understood why she was blushing; ladies don't think of such things, after all. Sympathetic, he reached a hand and covered her linen-covered knee with it, stroking with his thumb. He then glanced to her with a tender smile.

"No need for that," he said.

"I can't help it," she said. "But I suppose in time I will get used to it."

"I should hope you will always be free to say what you think to me," he said.

"I can assure you that won't be an issue."

"I mean even when we are intimate."

The pink in her cheeks intensified. "As I said. In time talk like this will not turn me into a beet."

They continued to eat and drink, and when they were through, he collected the cups and the food plates, and set them aside. "It's probably time we got some rest," he said, feeling the fatigue of the long day settling in. "Are you comfortable? Not too cold?"

"I'm fine, under cover of the duvet," she said. "The fire is not too hot, and…" She hesitated. "You're warm, too."

He couldn't help feeling a little pleased at her statement, and offered a smile.

He rose from the bed to add another log to the fire to last them the night, then snuffed out the candles until the room was bathed only in the faint amber glow from the hearth. On his approach to the bed to slip back in, he realised that she had watched him moving around the room the entire time. He didn't know why he felt so self-conscious; maybe it was because he hadn't before made it a habit to let ladies see him without clothes on. He hadn't even done that with Lady Natasha; she had always kept on a dressing gown, and he had taken his cue from her.

He brushed up to her and she gasped in a little surprise. "Ooh, you're cold now," she said, then moved closer to him. He was grateful that she was warm, too; he laid back and she curled up against him. Almost as if instinct, he turned on his side, and she turned, too, to fit up against him as if they were nested spoons.

It amazed him, quite frankly, how well her smaller form fitted against him. His arm enfolded her, his hand resting on her forearm; the curve of her backside tucked against his thighs and abdomen. He brushed his thumb lazily as he felt the draw of slumber pull him. But she shifted then, moved against him, and his hand dropped to cover her breast, her bottom moved against his pelvis; an unexpected spark of desire flickered back to life.

He placed his lips upon her shoulder, then opened them to touch the flat of his tongue to her skin, to graze his teeth against her, and he felt her arch her back a little in response. Not to push away from him, but in response to the sensation, which had the dual effect of exposing her neck to his kisses, and to pressing her bottom against a quickly growing arousal. His hand came down over her breast, brushing over a hardened tip as it passed over to her stomach and pressed flat. He heard a little moan issue from her throat, which got stronger, deeper, as his fingers pressed forward, and went between her legs.

She was already very warm, very wet, and his fingers slid over her, caressing her, pressing into that sensitive spot that it seemed she was discovering for the first time that evening. As he did, she sucked in a breath.

He wanted to have her just like this, nuzzled into her neck, bringing her pleasure with his hand; he turned her slightly onto her back, urged her legs apart, slipped his fingers up into her.

"Does that feel good?" he murmured.

She groaned a throaty, "Oh yes." She pushed herself back into him. "Please. More."

With that he shifted a little more, pushed himself forward and thrust himself into her, groaning into her neck, stroking her. The sounds she made into her pillow suggested this all brought her great pleasure, and this was confirmed when, in short order, she cried out in sync as she came, and came repeatedly. For his own climax, he thrust hard; it was only as he began to regain his breath and his heart no longer felt it might leap through his chest that perhaps he had been a little rougher with her than he'd meant. He drew away and turned her to him.

Her eyes were drowsy and heavy-lidded, but she looked to be in complete bliss. "Oh, my," she breathed. "That was… something else altogether wonderful."

He smiled, then chuckled a little in his relief that he hadn't actually hurt her. "I'm glad," he said, then gathered her up into his arms, pulled her close. He took in a deep breath; the cooler air of the room felt good upon his brow. Soon, with her in his arms, he was falling into a deep, contented sleep.


	4. Chapter 4: Navigating a New Life

**A Fairy Tale Wedding**

By S. Faith, © 2016  
Words: 31,210  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

Typos and other mistakes totally mine. I have some comments to respond to-sorry about that!

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Navigating a New Life**

 **The morning after**

The sunlight abruptly filling the room woke Bridget with a start; perhaps it had been an interrupted dream that made her gasp. Perhaps it was the proximity of another human being to her, something unknown to her before the previous night. As he slept, she was able to really observe him; the dark curls with their hint of chestnut highlights, the fringe of dark lashes on his closed eyes, the fine mat of hair on his chest, the peppering of stubble on his chin and jaw. The lines of his body, the definition of his muscles… all aspects of masculinity on such an intimate level were all so new to her.

He stirred; she quickly turned away. She didn't want him to see her staring. But her eyes were drawn back. And then his eyes opened in a flash to meet hers.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't wake me."

"But I was staring at you."

He smiled. "It was a coincidence."

If he needed to believe that, she'd let it drop.

He continued, "How are you this morning? Hungry?"

She thought about it, then nodded. She shifted, then winced a little. Side effect of the previous evening's activities, not that it was unwelcome. "I'd love a hot bath."

"Then you shall have one." He slipped out of the bed, stretched back with his arms over his head—again she was drawn to look at his chiselled backside—then reached for his dressing gown and slipped it on. He then tugged a tapestry bell pull to summon the help.

"Shall I put on my gown?"

"If you like," he said. "I'll be meeting them in the anteroom."

…

Fairly promptly came one of the kitchen maids bearing a covered tray on a wheeled cart. She revealed what she had brought: breakfast pastries, fresh fruit salad, toast, fried eggs, strips of cured bacon, and two tankards of hot beverages; one was his strong, hot coffee, and the other—which they had clearly been instructed to make for the new bride—was a creamy hot chocolate.

"Anything else, your royal highness?"

"This—" He indicated the pastries, fruit, hot chocolate. "—is to her royal highness' liking?"

"That is what the Grafton Underwood royal chatelaine instructed the cook to prepare for her," the maid said. "These pastries have a chocolate filling. She's very fond of chocolate."

He smiled. "I'm getting that impression," he said. "After breakfast, her royal highness desires a bath."

"Yes, your royal highness."

"Thank you. You may go."

The maid dropped a curtsey, then withdrew. He wheeled the cart into the inner sanctum of the bedroom. He found that she had slipped into her robe, pulled the bedcovers more or less up into place, and was sitting almost primly on the edge. She looked slightly disturbed, and she was looking to the side.

"Are you all right?"

"We'll need the chambermaid," she said.

"Oh, the fireplace needs tending," he said, following her gaze. "She can do that while we eat." He strode to the bell pull, tugged the one for the chambermaid.

"Yes, that," she said. "But…"

"'But' what?"

"The bed linens will need to be changed."

"We can certainly ask that, too." As he said it, it occurred to him exactly what she meant, after their first night together. "She'll assuredly understand, and be discreet. Come, eat your breakfast." He set the tray on a table by the window, pushed her chair in for her then handed her the pastry and the hot chocolate.

When there was a crisp knock at the door, Mark called for the maid to enter, and asked her to tend to the hearth. They began to eat as the chambermaid did her fast, efficient work, and got another fire going for them.

"How did our kitchens do?" Mark asked, glancing up, seeing she was enjoying the pastry.

"Mmm," she said, chewing, then gave him a thumbs up and a small smile. After she washed down her bite with a gulp of her drink, she said, "It's very good."

He was very pleased, and he smiled. "I hope we'll continue to make your transition here an easy one."

At this comments, her smile faded a little; he realised his misstep instantly. She would miss her home greatly. He reached across the table to take her hand, to squeeze it gently to offer support. "Sorry," he said.

"It's all right," she said, but squeezed back. "I knew the day was coming. But I'll miss the comforts of home, my friends, my dad."

"They can visit whenever they want," he said. "And we can go to visit them, too."

"I'd like that." Her smile returned and was even a bit more tender. "Thanks."

By the time they finished their food, the fireplace had been fully cleaned, swept, and a new fire stoked on this chilly autumn day. The chambermaid said that the bath would be ready now, and that they could go to his bathing chamber at their leisure.

Her brows raised. " _Your_ bathing chamber?"

He nodded. "I thought the practise of bringing a copper tub into this room a bit out-dated. I wanted a more permanent structure, and with the latest technology."

"Technology?"

"You'll see." He rose from the table, then held out his hand. "Come on."

He led her to the door that connected him to the bathing chamber, pulled aside a tapestry to reveal it; as soon as they went in, the chambermaids who were preparing the room curtseyed and then left. The bathtub was very large, as he had always liked to sit in the hot water and let it take care of the aches and pains of the day, and was made of hammered copper. Around it was an enclosure that allowed a series of small fires to keep the water hot, and the enclosure was covered in decorative embellishment. The chambermaids had left a stack of towels and flannels, and had decorated the room with some fresh flowers.

"They brought in all of this water?" Bridget asked, going to its edge.

"No," he said, indicating a tap that came up on one side. "The water is piped in."

"Oh, I think my mum wants that for the palace back home," she said. "Back in Grafton Underwood, I mean." She looked it over. "Where does the water go when you're finished bathing?"

"There's a hole at the bottom that drains it out. Just pull the stopper and that's that."

"Oh, wonderful." She turned to look at him, a grin on her face. "Can I get in?"

"Absolutely." He went and locked the door to the outside hallway. She pulled her hair into a sloppy knot that seemed to miraculously stay put, then untied her dressing gown. He turned away as she climbed in; despite their night last night, he knew she would not have been used to undressing in front of a man.

"Oh, this is lovely," she said. He turned back to see her head above the water, the rest of her refracted oddly in the stilling water. "You know, there's room enough for both of us, if you want to join me."

He did not want to presume, but he was pleased she asked. He untied his robe, then stepped up and then down into the bath, her eyes on him the entire time, fixed as if in fascination until he settled in. The water was hot, but pleasantly so, and he detected a hint of lavender essential oil for relaxation and soreness.

"I didn't mean to stare," she said, meeting his gaze. "It's just kind of… new to me."

"I understand," he said. "I don't mind your curiosity at all."

"I'm glad," she said.

He held out his arm to invite her closer so that they could recline in the large bath together, and she came closer to sit in the crook of his arm. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, placed a hand on his chest, then slipped her fingers over his skin. The light (if unintentional) caress was nice, but she quickly moved her hand back into a safer position near his collarbones as if she had touched a fire.

"It's all right," he murmured, close into her ear. His arm was around her shoulders, and his hand grasped her shoulder. "Like I said. Be curious."

He felt her other arm around his back at the waist as if to hold herself to him, then the hand that had sat idle near his shoulder moved down again over his chest. He exhaled slowly; her touch felt so gentle, sweet, tentative. The flat of her hand moved from his chest to his abdomen, sweeping to the side, then down, then to his hip before stopping.

"Go on, if you want," he said; his voice was quiet, raspy, for her touch was already stirring desire in him. Tentatively her fingers trailed down his lower abdomen, and when she touched the burgeoning hardness he gasped a little. She ran her fingers along the length, towards him and then away again to the tip. He shivered with the pleasure.

She did it again, only with slightly greater pressure, then held him in her hand, tracing the head with her thumb. He was getting even harder, longer, in her grasp. "Oh my," she said, realising the effect she was having on him. Her fingers brushed even lower still, and involuntarily he twitched his hips forward.

Her curiosity was in full swing now, and her fingers moved from the shaft to cup him beneath, her fingers caressing him gently, then, at the sounds of pleasure and approval he'd begun to make, applying a little more pressure.

"Oh, darling," he gasped, pulling her up to him, pressing his lips to hers to devour her with a kiss. She swivelled and, as if instinctive, straddled his thighs, continuing to stroke the hardened shaft with her hand; but his hands came around to her backside, grasping gently, pulling her forward. One hand went between her thighs, causing her to loudly moan into his mouth; she was more than ready to couple with him.

He drew her closer still then guided himself into her. She moaned again. One of his arms came around the small of her back; the other continued to work where their bodies joined, pressing against that tender spot that drove her insensible. Arching up into her was causing the bath water to slosh about, but he cared nothing for the ensuing mess. He cared only for the bliss they were sharing.

She broke the kiss to suck in a deep breath, then arched back; the closer she got to climax, the more she bent back. As she did, her pert breast was on offer before him, and he brought his mouth to cover it, teasing it with his teeth.

At this action, she squeezed her thighs and groaned; he could feel the waves of her passion washing over her. He grasped both of her hips tightly as he pulled her down hard; as he did, he too came.

She slipped her arms around his neck and leaned forward, heavily against him, taking in deep breaths, her cheek pressed against his. He wrapped his arms around her waist, sinking further down into the water. She stretched her legs out along his own as he leaned against the wall of the basin.

"Water's a little shallower now, isn't it?" she said quietly.

"I think it might be," he said, amusement in his voice. He sighed, then took in a deep breath.

He heard her soft voice in his ear, "Do we have any engagements today?"

"I believe the evening meal will be with our families," he said. "My parents and brother, your parents and brother."

She turned to the side, turned him too, then released him to float in the water. "Shouldn't be any problem, then, to sit and enjoy the warmth of the water for a little bit longer."

"No," he said. "It shouldn't be."

So there they reclined for many minutes in the tub; the heat of the water penetrated through into his sore muscles. Until…

"Do you hear that?"

He raised his head, which is when he heard it too. Someone rapping on the door of the bed chamber. He sighed. It would seem there was some commitment to meet that he had forgotten about. He rose from the tub, dried himself off, and then slipped into his dressing gown. He found standing there, of all people, his mother. Subconsciously, he pulled his dressing gown more tightly around himself.

"I'm very sorry to bother you," she said. "But your new bride has some public appearances slated this afternoon with us while her parents are still here."

He ran his hand over his face, trying to hide how sheepish he felt. "Apologies," he said. "I was unaware of this."

"It's all right; if you can get her to her lady-in-waiting soon, she can be made ready." She smiled a little. "Your own valet is getting a bit antsy. He's used to having you up and about already."

"Yes, Mother," he said.

He retreated and closed the door, returning to the bath chamber to find that she had already gotten out, dried off and clad in her own dressing gown. "Your lady-in-waiting awaits," he said; his eyes were drawn to a small bead of water that was trailing from the dampened hair at the nape of her neck, down over her collarbone, diving into the front of her dressing gown. "Joint royal public appearances with the families."

"Ah," she said, a shy smile playing upon her lips. "I suppose I had better be on my way, then."

"Suppose so."

She stepped forward, and as she did she reached a hand out to take his with both of hers. As she did, she got up onto her toes and pecked a quick kiss on his cheek, then got down again.

"Thank you," she said quietly, "for a very good night."

"My pleasure," he said.

With that, she was gone.

 **The ladies' tea**

Bridget sat perched on the seat before her vanity, while her lady-in-waiting Magda attempted to sort out her hair. Between the active night in the bed and then that day in the bath, there were many tangles to sort out. She was too lost in her thoughts, though, for the tugs to her scalp to bother her.

Could it be possible that married life would not be as dreary as she'd thought? That he might actually be tolerable to live with, to share her days with… and especially her nights with?

"More than tolerable," she murmured to herself.

"Pardon?" asked Magda.

"Nothing," she said. "Nothing at all."

Perhaps because of the snarls, Magda did not do too elaborate a coiffure, but it was clean and tidy, and quite beautiful. Magda then helped into her dress; more of a gown, really, with pearls sewn along the hem, and full skirts. Wasn't the sort of thing she'd wear every day, but it was her first public appearance since the wedding yesterday, so she had to make sure she put her best foot forward, so to speak, in one of her best dresses, and matching shoes.

The final touch was the placement of her coronet upon her head. She examined her reflection; she was pleased with what she saw, and she smiled. Was that a touch of colour in her cheeks, a brighter sparkle in her eyes?

"There you are, your royal highness," said Magda. "Someone will be here for you at any time now."

"Someone" turned out to be Queen Elaine herself, who looked at her new daughter-in-law with warmth and appreciation. "You look absolutely gorgeous," she said. "I trust you had a pleasant, comfortable night?"

"I did, thank you." Bridget thought she meant this only in a solicitous manner and not actually attempting to discover details on their wedding night; if it had been her own mother asking, she would definitely have questioned it.

"Well, my dear, come with me." She reached for Bridget's hand, then placed it into her own elbow. "We are hosting a little tea with some of the high-ranking women of the court."

The two of them met with Bridget's own mother, and then were announced by the herald as they were about to enter. Bridget learned quickly that her idea of 'little' did not match that of her new mother-in-law's; the room was filled with tables, which in turn were filled with women dressed in their finery. She had quickly put her royal face on, and now greeted the assembled with a smile as they rose to their feet. She followed her mother and Queen Elaine to their own table, the head table, then turned to face the sea of faces.

"Good afternoon to all of you," said Queen Elaine. "Thank you for joining us. I would like to officially present to you my son's new wife, the Crown Princess of Huntingdon, Bridget."

Fully inhabiting princess mode, Bridget smiled and nodded her head. "It is lovely to be here," she said. "I'm looking forward to being in your service. Thank you."

Only when they sat did the others sit.

The tea itself was very pleasant; tea and all of the pastries and sweets were exceptional. In small groups the women came up and paid their respects to her and the queens. For the most part, Bridget was again lost in her own mind, distracted by thoughts of the night before, how her preconceptions of how her life would be once she was married, until the announcement of a familiar name brought her fully to the present.

"Lady Natasha," said Bridget, offering her sweetest smile.

"Your royal highness," Lady Natasha said with due deference, lowering her eyes as she curtseyed. When she met Bridget's gaze, the dark intensity she saw there took her aback, but she had expected nothing less, and she was careful not to let it show. "Allow me to offer my congratulations again. How different it must be here in Huntingdon than your homeland."

There was a cutting edge to the tone of her voice that seemed to insinuate that Grafton Underwood was some kind of backwater. "Very," Bridget said politely. They hadn't conversed at all yesterday, and she was honestly feeling a bit catty, so continued, "My husband has mentioned you to me."

"Has he?" Lady Natasha asked, clearly surprised, before she could think better of asking.

"Yes," said Bridget, and left it at that. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

Lady Natasha seemed to take the hint and curtseyed again, before she stepped back and then left with the small group with which she had approached.

"Well done," said Queen Elaine quietly from beside her; she'd had no idea that the woman had been paying the least bit of attention to their conversation. _Oh God_ , thought Bridget. _Does the queen know about her son's prior connection with that woman?_ Suddenly her face felt a bit warm; she only hoped she wasn't turning bright red.

Somehow, though, she made it through the tea without further words with Lady Natasha. As they processed out, her mother took her arm this time. "You look a bit tired, darling," said Queen Pamela. "Was the _bed_ comfortable enough for you?"

She felt her face flush yet again.

Thank goodness for Queen Elaine, who interjected with, "Of course it was, Pam. Why don't we take you back to your rooms, so you can rest before dinner? And dinner is just the families, so you can just relax and be yourself."

"Thank you," said Bridget, relief evident in her voice even to her own ears.

 **The men's hunting party**

Perhaps it had not been the best idea, Mark reflected as rode alongside his brother, to handle and wield a weapon the day after his wedding night. He was not as focused as he should have been whilst out on a hunting party. He was preoccupied with thoughts of his new wife, how soft and sweet she'd been, how responsive she had been to his touch, and how much he had responded to her touch in turn.

"A penny for your thoughts," said his brother.

Mark shot Peter a look, which caused the latter to smile broadly, then laugh a little.

"Ah, I think I can guess," Peter continued. "I would never be so uncouth as to ask for details."

"Good," Mark said curtly.

This elicited a sharp laugh that caused the nearest other rider to jerk his head in their direction.

"Comport yourself, brother," Mark said.

Peter at least had the good grace to look chastened; only the hint of a smirk remained. "I apologise."

The rest of the ride was uneventful, but in terms of a hunt, successful, and they had a fox to present to the new crown princess. Not that he'd had the focus to shoot it himself. His brother took credit for that. Any of the spoils, though, were always destined for the new bride per tradition, and he hoped she would be pleased.

"Why don't you retire to your quarters, change into clean clothes, and rest before dinner?" said Peter as they returned to the palace from the stables, clapping his brother on the shoulder.

"Perhaps I shall," he said; after a night during which his sleep was pleasantly interrupted, a quick nap sounded ideal to recharge.

When he arrived at his quarters, his valet was there to meet him, and drew him hot water for a quick bath to wash away the outdoor grime from the day. By the time he was through, he felt physically refreshed but, paradoxically enough, thoroughly weary.

"Your royal highness," said Giles, "I am told that your wife is also returned, and is enquiring as to how your afternoon went."

"Who has told you that?"

"Her lady-in-waiting communicated this to me."

Ah, Magda; pretty in a plain way, with ginger hair and a very accommodating disposition. "Do you know if her royal highness is receiving anyone in her rooms?"

"Ah, I am told she is not," said Giles, "but you are welcome if you wish to see her."

This he found intriguing, but he did not let it show in his expression. "Thank you, I would like that."

He had been privy to the preparation of the boudoir, had made sure it was befitting his wife, the Crown Princess. He had made sure it was comfortable. But he had not seen it since she had taken up residence. Surely she had added her own personal touches.

He was about to find out.

He drew the dressing gown's tie closed, then ventured out into the hallway and approached her boudoir door. He would have been well within his right to immediately enter, but he found that he respected her privacy too much to do that. Respected _her_ too much.

He knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"Your husband," he said; he rather liked the way that rolled off of his tongue. The way it resonated in his throat as he said it.

There was silence, then, "Come in."

He did. The room was much like he had seen it last, though she had indeed brightened it up with flowers. On the walls were vivid little landscape paintings; the top of the frames draped with bright silks to further cheer the room. Bridget herself was sitting on a chair at an escritoire by the window, writing in what appeared to be a little bound volume. As he walked in, she closed it and set it down on the escritoire, and she offered him a smile.

"Hello," he said.

"Hi," she said. She rose to her feet. She was wearing a simple dress, laced in the front and tightly enough to support her. The more elaborate dress, the gown she had obviously worn for the tea, was hanging upon the wardrobe, matching shoes resting beneath. Her hair was still in its braided coiffure, but her coronet had been returned to its case. "How was your afternoon?"

"Quite pleasant," he said. "We had a successful hunt."

"Hunt?"

He smiled. "We have a tradition, a fox hunt. The fox will be yours after proper preparation."

She looked a bit horrified. "What kind of preparation?"

He smiled. "Do you not want the fox?"

"I'll accept it if you want me to, but they seem like such sweet, innocent creatures…"

"They really are not," he said. "I've seen what they do to livestock. But I don't want to upset you with this right now. Tell me about the tea with the court ladies."

She smiled, taking in a deep breath. "It went well. I spoke to Lady Natasha briefly."

"Oh, did you?"

"She gives off that façade of pleasance and deference," she said, "but she's forever plotting and planning her head, isn't she?"

He chuckled. "And after only two brief meetings with her," he said. "You are very perceptive."

She looked very pleased. "Honestly much of it went by in a blur," she continued. "My mind was elsewhere."

"I have a confession," he said; he stepped forward, taking her hand in both of his. "So was mine." He met her gaze and held it. "Had you plans to rest before dinner?"

"I had planned so, yes."

"Would you object terribly if I rested with you?"

"I would not object at all."

She smiled, then tugged his hand towards her bed. She turned to pull the duvet and bed linens back, then sat upon the bed. He sat beside her.

"Shall I help you with the laces on your dress?" he asked.

"If you don't mind."

He reached up and pulled the end of the ribbon, which was tied in a bow at the collar of her dress. With the bow released, he loosened it further, pulling aside the panels of the dress.

"Better?" he asked.

She nodded, blinking a bit slowly, but her expression seemed one of conflict.

"Is something wrong?"

"Not at all," she said. "I'm just not used to this. A man, alone, in my room." She paused; she brought a hand up to cover his, which rested on her thigh. "There's a part of me that's also… I feel like I should like this less than I do. Do you know what I mean?"

"I do," he said quietly. "I hope you get over the feeling soon, because I like it, too. Very much."

She curled her fingers around his, then surprised him by lifting his hand and bringing it to her to hold her breast, just as she leaned forward to place a kiss on his lips. "I think I'll manage, somehow," she whispered.

With this explicit permission, he leaned forward to kiss her again; one arm went around her waist, and the other, the one that held her breast, cupped it, brushing his thumb over the hardening tip again and again, with increasing pressure. Her response to this touch, to his kiss, was to make a soft sound into his mouth as she ardently kissed him in return.

He released her breast in order to push aside the cloth to bare it, then brought his mouth down to kiss it, then take it in his mouth, rolling his tongue in circles, grazing gently with his teeth. She arched her back into him, softly moaning her pleasure, her fingers weaving into his hair, her nails raking along his scalp.

He did the same to the other; as he did, he brought his hand down to the hem of her dress, lifting it higher and higher on her leg until he could grasp her backside. As he did, he brought his head up to reclaim her mouth.

He tightened his arm about her waist. To his surprise, though, she shifted her leg, moving so that she was straddling his lap. He pressed her to him, kissing her as she moved rhythmically against him with an instinctive certainty, further flaring his desire and the hardness pressed between them.

Feeling his climax building ever more quickly, he worked his hand between them, first to ensure she was ready for their joining—she was more than ready, as she broke from the kiss to gasp at the feel of his fingers between her legs—and then to guide him in.

"Oh," she moaned close to his ear as that connection was made; as she lowered herself, as he went more deeply into her, the moan intensified. Reflexively he bucked his hips up into her, placed his hands firmly upon her hips to pull her sharply down. She cried out; for a moment, he wondered if it wasn't a bit too rough for her, if he had hurt her, but then she began to rock up and down of her own accord. He wrapped an arm around her waist again, pulling her down with every thrust up, working a hand between them again, pressing insistently on that tender spot where his body met hers.

She cried out again, then began to quiver; he felt the climax overtake her, felt the waves roll against him. The feel of her brought him ever closer and closer until he came, too. His hands came up to grasp her hips again, holding her as close to him as he could until, at long last, he was spent.

He wrapped his arms about her waist then fell backwards onto the bed, kissing her again, running his hands over her back and bottom once more.

'Manage', indeed. She seemed more free than even the previous night to express her own wants and desires. He had not pulled her onto his lap; she had chosen to do that of her own free will. He thought that he might very much like being married to her, after all.

He shifted the pair of them around so that their heads were upon the pillows, and so that he could draw the linens and duvet over them. He held her close as their breathing calmed, returned more to normal. "You're all right?" he asked gently.

"Oh, yes," she said in more of a sigh than anything else. "I felt like the top of my head was going to pop off, there."

He laughed a little, deep in his throat. "I take this to be a good thing."

"Yes. Yes, it was."

These was the last words either spoke for some time; with the climax subsiding, the weariness took over, and they fell to sleep. The next thing he knew, someone was rapping at the door. "Your royal highnesses, dinner is in three-quarters of an hour." It was a female voice; he suspected it was Magda's, the lady-in-waiting.

…

Her mind had been drifting along like a leaf on a lazy river, a feeling of calm and peace washing over her; the warmth, the presence of her husband of a little over a day was reassuring and comforting. Funny how quickly one could get used to something when it brought the mind such challenge, the body such pleasure…

Then Magda's voice shattered the calm, and her eyes flew open. Oh, God. Had everyone known they had been avidly at it like rabbits? She supposed she was grateful, at least, that Magda had not just entered the room. Not that there was anything scandalous to see from the outside of the duvet, but still—

She sat up rather abruptly, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

"What is it?" he asked of her. He did not sit, but she did feel that he shifted.

"Dinner."

"Come here."

She swivelled to face him. He did look very handsome reclining there amongst the pillows, his dressing gown open and his broad chest on display, the mat of hair extending down to his navel and below the edge of the linens—

Embarrassed to be caught staring at his body, she raised her gaze to meet his eyes again. He was smirking in a most self-satisfied way. "We don't have to hop right up and dress. Come lie here again for a moment."

She did as he asked, and he pulled her up against him in a comfortable nested-spoon position, draping his arm over her, enfolding her in his embrace. She felt his warm breath on her temple, and she closed her eyes and sighed. "We'd better be careful not to doze off again," she murmured. "Magda won't just knock next time."

"Good thing I locked the door," he murmured in return. He kissed the edge of her earlobe; his hand drifted to cover a breast as he then nibbled on the lobe.

"I'm not sure we have time for that, either," she said. "My hair is likely a mess, and will need to be tended to all over again."

"Take out the braids, then brush out. There. Sorted." His fingers trailed down to between her legs, pressing through the fabric of the dress, making her sigh again. "Strange that I could once go for weeks without physical intimacy," he said quietly. "But with you… I don't want to imagine going more than a day."

There was an undeniable chemistry, an attraction that she'd felt since the night of that first kiss just outside her bed chamber door. She arched her back a little, instantly feeling his burgeoning desire against the small of her back, and gasped a little.

Now his lips were against the side of her neck; between kisses, he managed, "May I, darling? May I have you again?"

"Yes," she stuttered; barely had the word escaped her throat that she felt him push the dress' skirts up again to her waist. She still had her back up against his chest, though, which confused her, but when he began to stroke earnestly between her legs, stoking her own desire, she decided it was just best to trust him, trust that he would not steer her wrong.

She was right to do so. He turned her onto her stomach, grasped her hips and then drove into her from his position behind her, unleashing a new wave of sensations. Something about this new and different position was ever more exciting; she cried out, muffled by the pillow, with every one of his thrusts. With his hand on one of her breasts, teasing the nipple, squeezing it gently, she came very quickly, as did he; she had learnt quickly that the feel of mutual culmination was utter bliss.

And then he was flat against her again, atop her, for a moment before turning her to kiss her passionately. "I think now," he said, "that I might just be able to make it through dinner without wanting you."

She felt utterly satiated. "Same," she said with a light laugh; it was going to take herculean effort to not fall back to sleep warm and cosy in his arms, to pull away from him and prepare herself for dinner.

He squeezed his arms around her for a moment then released her with a long sigh; she suspected he felt much the same. "I suppose getting up and ready is inevitable, considering the next person to rap on the door will likely be my mother," he said, sitting up, running his hands through his hair.

"Or worse yet, mine," she said. It pleased her to hear him laugh at the comment.

From his sitting position, he turned at the waist and met her gaze. "I'll go back to the bed chamber to get dressed," he said. "Have your lady-in-waiting come for me and we'll head down to dinner together."

She nodded, watching him rise from the bed, then retie his dressing gown. "I do feel rested and relaxed," she said.

He turned to her, a grin playing upon his lips. "As do I." He leant down, pressed a kiss on the top of her head, then smoothed her hair flat. "See you in just a bit."

Within a minute or two of his departure, there was another knock on the door, accompanied again by Magda's voice: "All right to enter, your royal highness?"

Bridget stood, smoothing the dress down, realising there was no way it didn't look like she hadn't just had a torrid romp in it… never mind the state of her hair, which did not bear thinking about. She cleared her throat. "Yes, please come in."

Magda came in, and made no comment about the state of the dress or the hair, except to suggest, "You'll be choosing a new dress, then, your royal highness?"

"Yes," she said. "I'd like the blue one with the embroidery on the hems. You know, the white flowers."

Magda smiled. "Yes, I know which one you mean," she said. "It's your favourite, I think."

"Yes," Bridget said, smiling.

"But before we get the new dress on," she asked, "perhaps I can help you with…" Her gaze darted towards where the chamber pot resided. "If you have need."

Once the previous dress had been stripped from her, and the call of nature had been attended, Magda helped her into the new dress including full underclothes. Bridget then sat at the vanity and prepared for the pain of having the tangles in her hair undone. To her credit, Magda made no sounds or comments as she worked the previous plaits out and pulled a comb through it. Magda was probably the only one, save her mother, who could get away with commentary.

Magda was a wizard with that comb, though, and had her hair down and free from snarls within very little time at all, then pulled the lot of it back into a single plait to keep it away from her face.

"And with time to spare," Magda said, beamingly proud of herself.

"Thank you, Magda," said Bridget. "Will you kindly inform his royal highness that I am ready to be escorted to dinner?"

"Yes, your royal highness," Magda said, then curtseyed, and rushed out.

Within a few moments Magda returned with the crown prince in tow, curtseyed, then withdrew without waiting to be dismissed. She was in no position to scold her, for her husband had attended to himself and looked incredibly polished. Very handsome.

"You're ready, I see," he said, his gaze lingering. "You look lovely."


	5. Chapter 5: The Rose in Winter

**A Fairy Tale Wedding**

By S. Faith, © 2016  
Words: 31,210  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

 **Chapter 5: The Rose in Winter**

 **December**

Married life had meant a lot of adjustments in ways he never expected; even three months later, little things still amazed him. Overall, though, he was quite content, pleasantly surprised, by how easy it had been to fall into a routine with her. To have her companionship, her counsel, and her comfort at night.

But today… today's surprise was much bigger than a little thing. He hadn't yet felt so furious with her, and worse yet, he could not let it show. Not until they were in private quarters. Alone.

It had started for him with a comment from, of all people, Lady Natasha of Glenville, who had approached him after the men had joined the ladies again after tea. She was wearing an odd smile, one whose intent was clearer after she spoke. "We've just been having the most illuminating conversation," she said. "Your wife has the most… _interesting_ views."

The tone, the timed pause… it did not bode well for him to ask what she meant, but he did anyway.

"You know I disdain gossip—" He knew the opposite to be true. "—but she offered a rather _unique_ opinion on the scandalous whispers about Lady Amelia."

"You'll have to enlighten me," he said.

"Rumours apparently abound that she has taken a lover," Lady Natasha said in a very quiet tone. "If true, it does not become her at _all_."

"Ah," he said, noncommittally.

"And your wife's reaction to hearing was, 'Well, if it's nothing at all for Lord Owen to take a succession of mistresses on the side, why shouldn't she enjoy the same?'"

He willed himself not to react, but knew his complexion must have paled in shock on its own, given what she said next.

"I know, I know, we were all as taken aback as you are."

"I'll have a word," he said. " _Later_. If you and the other ladies would be so kind as to keep it to yourselves…"

She smiled again, placing a single finger over her own lips.

He said nothing more for the remainder of the luncheon, which actually caused no one to comment; he was not usually very verbose at the best of times. But his wife noticed, and he suspected that she knew the reason for his silence.

As soon as they were alone in the library, he decided it was time to broach the subject. However, she addressed it immediately. "I know you're not happy with me."

"What makes you say that?"

"I saw you talking with Lady Natasha before your demeanour went south. I'm sure she told you about what I said during the ladies' tea."

He pursed his lips. "Explain yourself, then."

She had clearly been thinking about what to say, and spoke immediately. "I find it totally unfair that it's perfectly socially acceptable for a man to have these affairs with women, but a woman does the same with a man and she's a pariah." He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off with a raised finger. "Before you say anything, I know ostensibly why this is. To ensure that any child the wife bears is truly his child and the legitimate heir. But if he's sleeping with some other man's wife, what about _that_ man's heir? The double standard is stupid. Either it's fine for both, or fine for neither. And I'm inclined to 'fine for neither'. Marry to honour those vows, or don't marry at all."

He did not know what to say at first. He was not angry; on the contrary, it was a noble sentiment, and he respected her for it. He had benefited from this double standard himself, even though his own mistress was a widow, but he realised that this had factored into his own decision to take up with Lady Natasha. He would not be muddying anyone else's legacy. But the reality was, this 'double standard' is what the majority of people believed. "You realise this is a very controversial stance," he said, his face betraying a small smile.

"I know I should care," she said, "but I don't, not really." She frowned, putting her hands upon her hips. "And what right does Lady Natasha have to judge Lady Amelia, when she did no differently with you? Widows aren't immune to this double standard."

"I hope you did not say that to Lady Natasha."

"I might have done," she said, still indignant, still with hands on hips, "if I hadn't thought of it just now."

He couldn't help it; he laughed. This seemed to make her… well, if not more irritated, then almost angry. "This isn't funny!" she said.

"It's not," he said, "but you sound ridiculous."

It was, unfortunately, one of the worst things he could have said. Her hands dropped until her arms hung by her side. "Ridiculous."

"You may privately feel this way," he explained. "But you shouldn't go around advocating for it."

"Oh, I shouldn't, should I?"

"It's a very liberal view of things."

"And we can't rock the boat, can we?"

"We shouldn't, no."

"But I'm the one being ridiculous."

He furrowed his brow. "Right now, you rather are."

"Ah. Right. Well, I'll be in my boudoir, _alone_ , should you want to apologise."

With that, she turned and left the library. He sighed, putting his hand over his face.

She did not speak directly to him during dinner; his mother asked what she had done that day, and she only responded that she had written a letter to her friend, Tom. "I miss my friends back home," she added. "I feel like no one understands me like they do."

Only then did she shoot a glance to Mark.

The silence, the lack of communication beyond 'please pass the salt cellar', did not go unnoticed by Elaine. She drew him aside after the meal—Bridget had disappeared immediately for her own rooms—to address it. "What's going on with you and Bridget?"

He explained in very abbreviated terms that they had had a disagreement, and over what they had disagreed.

"Well, you'll go and apologise post haste."

"What?"

"You can't go to bed angry, Mark," she said. "And you can't expect her to agree with everything."

"I don't expect that."

"I'm not sure that's true," she said. "You are not used to people saying 'no' to you, and it stings."

He looked to the side, knowing what she said was true at the heart of it. "Yes, you're probably right."

"I'm _definitely_ right," she said. "Go to her."

He looked to his mother again; she was smiling slightly, sympathetically. He nodded, then bent to kiss her cheek. "Good night."

…

Bridget stood alone, in the middle of the room, arms folded over her chest, anger simmering in her heart and soul. Perhaps it was unreasonable for her to be so angry, but she felt like the one person she could have counted upon to be on her side would be her own husband… and he hadn't. How could he agree that the woman should suffer ill opinion, but the man was just 'doing what men do'?

Bastard.

She had begun to pace again, quite without realising it, much as she had done before dinner, before Magda had come to help her get ready. She stilled when she heard a knocking on her door.

"Who is it?" she barked.

"It's me. It's Mark."

For a moment she seriously considered telling him to go away, but she had been the one to tell him to come if he wanted to apologise. She took in a deep breath, then sat down in the chair at her escritoire. "Come in," she said.

He entered, and to his credit, he looked suitably chastened; the light from the candles in her room danced in his dark eyes. "Hello," he said.

She didn't say anything. She waited for her apology.

"I just wanted to say that I am sorry, truly, for earlier," he said. "I shouldn't have said that, about sounding ridiculous. You are perfectly entitled to your own opinion separate from my own."

She blinked, totally surprised.

"But I must insist that you try to employ a little tact in expressing it."

"Ah," she said. "Your apology has a caveat."

He sighed, bringing his hand to cover his mouth. "It's not a caveat," he said at last. "It's asking you to acknowledge that as the future queen, you might need to not say the first thing that comes into your head every time, in every situation. Sometimes it's best to just listen, gather information, then take a productive course of action."

"Is this what you do?"

"Yes," he said.

"So I should just stay silent and let everyone think I agree with stupid opinions?"

"There are other ways to express your disagreement," he said. "You can show that you disagree in more… creative ways. And you outrank almost everyone else but my parents."

By this time, her anger had dissipated, and she allowed a little smile. "And you."

"That's debatable, at least as far as I'm concerned." He held out his hand, approaching her. "I really am sorry. I did not mean to start a quarrel with you."

She reached out and took his hand. "Apology accepted," she said. "Not too bad."

"What?"

"Not having a single quarrel for a whole three months after the wedding."

He glanced down, grinning a little, then tightened his grip on her hand before meeting her gaze again. "I suppose it's worth commemorating."

She didn't really have any objection, so she stepped close enough that she was touching him. "I suppose it is."

He released her hand in order to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her even closer. Her heart began to race as he lowered his head; she tilted her head back, closed her eyes in anticipation for that moment when his lips met with hers. She hoped they would never argue so badly that they couldn't resolve it by the time night fell.

But that expected kiss never came; she opened her eyes to see him watching her with amusement. "What?" she asked. "What is it?"

"It's all right, then, that I stay the night in your boudoir?"

With a short, sharp, unexpected laugh, she raised her hand and gave him a quick smack on the shoulder. Then she decided not to wait anymore, and raised up to kiss him first.

It hadn't been the first time she had taken the initiative, but he always seemed to like when she did, and this time was no different; he wrapped his arms around her and reciprocated fully. His hands spanned her back, moved down to hold (then squeeze) her backside, pulling her against the burgeoning hardness with which she had become very familiar over the last three months as a married woman.

Not that she had any complaints.

Then he lifted her up just under the backside and walked her over to the bed, setting her down on the edge; he reached down and hoisted up the edge of her dress, running his hands over her skin, over her shins, her knees, her thighs…

She gasped as he leaned over her, as he touched between her legs and made her squirm; she supposed he was using his other hand to unfasten his breeches. This proved true when he leaned even further, guiding himself into her hastily with a groan. With each thrust he groaned again. He must have been far more aroused than she'd thought, because he came very, very quickly, and as he gasped for air afterwards, he began to kiss her again and murmur into her ear. "I'm sorry," he said. "So sorry."

"What? You're sorry?"

"I know that you didn't…" he trailed off.

She sighed, running her hand over his hair. "It's all right, really," she said.

"No. It isn't." He raised himself up a little to look down upon her. "There's something I've been wanting to do," he said. "But I thought you might not want me to."

"Why don't you let me decide," she said, tracing a delicate line over his brow, along his cheek.

He held her gaze, not blinking. "If you're sure," he said; his voice had taken on an even huskier quality.

"You've never disappointed me, hurt me, frightened me so far."

With explicit permission granted, he brought his hand down to her thigh again, swirling his fingers in slow circles; he kissed her again, then withdrew slowly from her. She expected that he might push open the collar of her dress, begin to kiss her breasts, but perplexingly, he kept moving down. She pushed herself up on an elbow in time to see him crouch before just off of the edge of the bed. "What are—?" she began, then stopped suddenly when she felt his lips, his mouth, on her inner thigh, just above her knee.

Then his hands found her hips as he kissed a trail upwards, grazing his teeth on, pressing his tongue flat to her skin; she knew then what he meant to do, and she fell back flat to the bed in her anticipation. She felt his touch upon her skin, caressing with his fingers before she felt the wetness of his tongue on her.

However nimble his fingers had ever been upon her person, his tongue was even more so; coupled with the pressure of a finger in her, then two, she was quickly moaning and arching up on the bed under his skilful ministrations. Unsurprisingly, it did not take much time at all for her to reach her climax, and she cried out as the waves overcame her, as he carried on until she told him she'd had quite enough.

Then he was beside her again, stroking the hair away from her face, as she blinked blearily and looked up to him. "I trust you liked that?"

"Oh, yes," she said, still catching her breath. "Very much indeed."

"I'm very pleased to hear it." He rested his head down upon his folded arm, cupping her face in his hand. "Very pleased."

With great effort she hauled herself up in order to doff her clothing; he unlaced the ties in the front, then helped her to tug it over her head. Soon she was snug under the covers, with him spooned up behind her again. "I may have to start more arguments with you if they end this way," she murmured; she drifted off to sleep to the sound and feel of his quiet chuckling.

…

The argument had all but been forgotten… until, four days later, when Bridget found her lady-in-waiting interrupting her luncheon with Mark and her in-laws.

"Your royal majesties, your royal highnesses," Magda said, curtseying deeply, before she addressed Bridget directly. "Begging your pardon, your royal highness, but there's a gentleman here requesting your audience."

Bridget furrowed her brow; she was not proud to admit the first man she immediately thought of was Lord Cleaver. "Did he give a name?" Mark said. "A calling card?"

Magda's cheeks went pink. "Thomas," she said, then added, "Lord Coles."

Bridget's gaze shot to Mark, but as usual, his expression was unreadable. It was a bad sign, though, to see the sinews working in his jaw.

"Oh!" said Elaine. "That lovely man… we met him at the wedding, do you remember, Malcolm? Please show him in! Plenty of room at the table, plenty of food for him to refresh himself after his journey."

Magda curtseyed again, then withdrew.

"I wonder what that young man could want?" wondered Malcolm. She had a feeling she knew, and she thought Mark probably knew, too.

"I had recently written to him, so maybe he thought I'd like to be surprised with a visit," she said, brightness in her voice. She smiled at Elaine and Malcolm, then at Mark, but he did not smile back.

The truth was, she was very glad to see Tom; when he came into the room, he bowed at the king and queen, then Mark, then walked up to Bridget, a smile on his face.

"My dear," he said, reaching for her hand, "I've never seen you look lovelier."

Greeting her this way was a longstanding joke between the two of them, but she sensed that Mark did not see it as such, given his expression. She opened her mouth to explain but he turned away, and his mother began to talk, asking Tom how his journey had been, inviting him to have a seat and to partake of the food and drink as he liked.

"Yes, thank you, your royal majesty," he said. Before he had finished speaking, one of the maids stepped forward to serve him a portion of meat pie and a glass of lemon-water.

He spoke very little while he ate and drank; he must have been famished, because he finished his meal at about the same time everyone else did.

"Delicious, just absolutely delicious," he said after washing the last of it down with a swig of his water. Then he turned to Bridget. "I would love for you to show me around that lovely garden I saw on my way here?"

She knew what he really meant: he wanted to ask her for an update regarding what she had written in her letter to him. She wanted to, but not with Mark tagging along. She glanced to Mark as she said, "I would love to do so, but I—"

"I have some business that needs attending," Mark interrupted curtly, looking at Tom. "Enjoy your visit with my wife." He rose, then left the room.

After a few moments of silence, Bridget also rose from the table, "Come, let's go. I fear it may rain later."

As soon as they had donned their outerwear and began their stroll through the garden, Tom began to talk. "I actually came because I could sense from your letter that you were feeling lonely," Tom said. "It sounded like you could feel like someone was on your side."

"Thank you, Tom. That's exactly how I was feeling," she said; as used to be her habit, she slipped her hand through his elbow, and they walked together for a few steps before he said anything. Amusement was evident in his voice.

"Whatever would your husband think?"

Hurriedly she drew away. "Oh, surely no one would get the wrong idea," she said. "Would they?" She was both horrified at the thought of anything improper with her old friend, and offended that anyone would possibly think so little of either of them, or so little of her that she would betray her husband of three months.

"They don't know me—or you, for that matter—very well. Certainly they don't know us like we know ourselves. So as much as it pains me to say, we'll have to be on best behaviour."

She sighed. She knew he was right.

"So how is everything?" he asked. "I mean, I presume you're talking again?"

She realised she had written her letter after the quarrel, but before they'd made up. "We are," she said. "He apologised, sort of."

"What do you mean, 'sort of'?"

"He said he was sorry for what he said," she explained, "but then asked me to start being a little more tactful."

Tom made an indignant sound.

"No, no, he's right. I _do_ need to do that. I went from princess in the background behind my brother, the son and heir, to crown princess, front and centre."

"Hmm," Tom said. "You'd think that when you're crown princess, you can do whatever you want and no one could tell you otherwise."

"Ahh, but he suggested I use tact," she said, " _not_ that I not do anything at all."

At this, Tom said, "Ahh, indeed."

"Exactly," she said, grinning at him.

…

Mark supposed the sound of the cracking billiard balls in his game room gave his position away, and was not surprised when a footman came in to bring him word of a visitor.

"Who is this visitor?" When the footman looked nervous, Mark instantly knew who it was. "Lady Natasha?"

"Yes, your royal highness."

"Show her to the library," he said; somewhere neutral, and not private, not his private office. "I'll be there in a moment."

He had gone to shoot a few rounds of billiards in an attempt to work out his frustration, and this latest development was not easing that frustration at all. What on earth could she want?

After a brief review of his own appearance in the looking glass, Mark was as good as his word, and met Lady Natasha there, where she sat with a glass of lemon-water, sipping daintily. At his arrival she stood, looking as demure and concerned as it was possible for her to look. "Word came to me that you have a visitor. Rather… your wife does."

"Word travels quickly," he said drolly.

"It always has," she shot back. There was a harshness to her voice, even if only for a moment, that surprised him; but she recovered herself and smiled, such that he wondered if he had imagined it. "I just came because, honestly, I was concerned."

He knew it was probably a trap, but he asked anyway: "What have you to be concerned about?"

"There's no need to be coy with me," she said. "No need to put on a brave face. Your wife, receiving a male visitor… after such strong sympathetic opinions about poor, poor Lady Amelia, you might want to keep a closer eye on her. Clearly she is not averse to the idea of taking a—"

"You may refrain from finishing that sentence," he said tersely, interrupting her; the idea had struck a little too close to home.

"I apologise," she said, holding up a hand as if in surrender. "I didn't mean to offend. I only wanted to voice that concern."

"Consider it voiced," he said.

"Please remember that I'm always going to be here for you," she said, reaching to place a gentle hand on his forearm. "I know you had to marry her, but you _don't_ really have to resign yourself to a cold bed."

He snorted a laugh; he hadn't meant to, but it happened. The sudden sound startled her back and away, and she withdrew her hand. "Thank you for your solicitude," he said, "but the bed we share is anything but cold. As I said before, my involvement with you is over."

A stiff smile found her features; his words had hit their target. "You are perfectly clear in your meaning," she said, then reached to set her teacup (with saucer) down on a nearby table. "I apologise for taking up so much of your time." She rose, as did he, to say goodbye.

"Jeffries," he said, calling to the footman attending at the doorway, just outside, in the hallway. "Please escort Lady Natasha to her carriage." He turned back to her. "Good afternoon."

She stared at him for a beat or two more, then turned and withdrew from the room. He sat down again, running his fingers back through his hair, grateful for the peace, quiet, and solitude.

The library's French window faced the flower garden, and motion out of the corner of his eye caught his attention; he looked and saw it was Bridget with her friend coming down the path, aiming for the French windows. He rose as they stepped in.

"Oh, hello," she said, clearly not expecting to see him there.

"Hello," he said, looking at Lord Thomas, scrutinising the details of the man's appearance before turning his gaze back to his wife. "Did you have a nice walk?"

"We did," she said brightly. "What brings you to the library?"

"Nothing of importance," he said, as it was technically true.

"If you'll pardon me," Lord Thomas said, "I think I'll retire to my room for a bit of a rest before dinner."

"Of course," Bridget said. "I could—"

"Jeffries can show you to your room," Mark interrupted, then turned and called, "Jeffries!" The footman was already returned from showing Lady Natasha to the front door. "Kindly show Lord Thomas to his room, if you please."

"Of course, your royal highness," he said, bowing slightly. "Sir, if you'll follow me."

Once they were alone together in the room, he saw her own features cloud over. "Why do you dislike him so?" she asked quietly. "I've already explained that we are nothing more than friends, and we have been for years. Nothing more will _ever_ happen with him. You may trust me on this."

"That is so easy to say," Mark said, "but sometimes men…" He trailed off at the sight of her staring at him, mouth agape.

"Are you're suggesting that Tom is going to, I don't know, suddenly lose his mind and… take advantage of me? Or… or that I might lose mine and decide I want my life-long friend, a man who is like another brother to me, to share my bed the way that you and I do?"

Mark had no ready reply, because it did sound exactly like he was suggesting that.

"I have something to tell you," she said. She then went over to the door to the room and closed it before she came close again. "When I say nothing has happened or will happen with Tom, I am not just offering empty words. It's true." He waited to hear the explanation; she took his hand. "I know ladies aren't supposed to know about such things, but Tom is not interested in… intimacy with our sex."

She was right. While not illegal in any way, it was not a topic discussed amongst gentlemen; no one really cared what people did in the privacy of their own bedrooms, and he counted himself amongst that number. But she was right. Ladies were not supposed to know.

She brought him from his thoughts by squeezing his hand. He met her gaze. "I didn't know."

"I didn't expect you would," she said. "I had promised Tom never to tell anyone. But I realised I had made a big mistake in not telling you straight away. I think he'll understand, given the circumstance."

He raised a hand to cup her face with it. "I'm sorry."

She smiled, placing her hand atop his. "You don't need to apologise," she said. "But I would like to hear you say that you believe me that I'd never betray you with any other man, either."

She had never given him a reason to doubt her. Suddenly he felt foolish for having done so, even for a moment. "I do believe you."

She smiled, then lifted up on her toes to peck a kiss onto his lips. "Thank you."

"But I feel I do owe you an apology."

"Consider it accepted, then," she said. "But you can offer one to Tom later."

"Perhaps I can… offer something more to you."

He watched in amusement as her brows lifted ever so slightly. "Are you all through with your business for today? Or… oh. You never had any business, did you?"

"I must admit, I did not," he said. "I didn't want to be present with your friend. I felt uncomfortable, to be honest."

"I hope that you won't be uncomfortable now."

"I think that you can be sure of that," he said.

Cautiously, she asked, "So what did you have in mind?"

He took her in, cloaked in her heavy winter cape, one that she had not bothered to remove after coming in with Lord Thomas—or Tom, as he might want to think of him now. "Already dressed for the occasion," he said. "I'll get my own overcoat on."

"Now I'm really intrigued."

He stepped out into the hallway; Jeffries had again returned, and he looked attentively at the crown prince. "My cloak, Jeffries," he said.

"Yes, your royal highness."

It was a mild winter day, but not mild enough to eschew the outerwear. Jeffries returned within a few moments and held up the cloak for Mark to don. "The crown princess and I are going for a walk. We shall return presently, and would prefer a little privacy."

"Understood," he said; the man was as stoic as they come, but Mark detected the faint hint of a smile.

He entered the room again, strode directly to her, took her hand, and then opened the French window. After walking through down the path for a bit in silence, her arm through his, she asked, "So where are you taking me?"

"I know you like roses," he said.

"It's winter," she said. "There won't be roses for months yet."

He smiled again. She'd see soon enough.

As they edged closer, he said, "It's a place I like to come, especially in the winter, when I want to be in peace and be reminded of what spring will be bringing."

"Now I'm really intrigued."

"Good," he said.

The front of the building, what used to be a chapel, looked pretty ordinary from the outside. The rose window was small and modest, but she noticed it right away. "I can't wait to see that from the inside," she said. The day was bright, and when they stepped in to the dim stone building, the window was dazzling in shades of deep ruby red and blue.

"This is beautiful," she said, her voice choked with emotion. "Thank you."

"It is," he said, "but this isn't it."

"Pardon?"

"This isn't what I came here to show you. Follow me."

She looked wholly curious, which pleased him greatly.

He took her hand and led her through the dimness; he had been coming here since he was a boy, and could have found his way through with his eyes closed. He led her through a door, then down a short hallway of stone, small windows lighting the way, until they emerged through another door into—

She gasped. "Oh my word."

The structure itself was no taller than the old chapel, and thus not visible from the front, due to the walls and the trees, but was as different from the dark stone chapel as night was to day. The frame of it from about his shoulder to ceiling was of wrought iron, into which was set panes of glass; inside this greenhouse were rose bushes towering over them and all the way down the aisle as they walked, huge, glorious roses on every bush.

"There's a greenhouse for our food, well tended," he said quietly, "but when I found this during my boyhood ramblings, I made sure my parents had it repaired, that we assigned a gardener to care for them."

"So these have been flourishing since you were a boy?"

"Yes," he said. "I think of it as mine. No one really comes here but me… and the gardener, of course."

She turned away from looking at the greenery, the flowers, and back to him. "It's beautiful," she said. "Thank you for bringing me here—for sharing this with me."

"I'm ashamed I haven't brought you here sooner, to be honest."

She smiled a little shyly, then reached to take his hand. "I think maybe you've had other things on your mind."

He turned her hand over in his, pulling her to him. "I suppose I rather have," he said. The truth was also in part that, while he had felt closer to her by degrees over the three months she had been his wife… today, after her disclosure that she felt safe entrusting to him, he felt closer to her than ever before.

He reached and took her other hand with his, drew her to him, face to face. "I'm so glad that you like it," he said. Then he let go of one of her hands to hold her face in his palm again, stroking the skin with his thumb, before he leaned down to kiss her.

There was something wonderfully heady about being surrounded by the scent of the roses. He slipped an arm around her under her cape and drew her up against him; she embraced him, too, under his cloak, her fingers pressing insistently into his back. Suddenly, despite the inconvenience of their location, he wanted her. No, more than that.

He loved her.

She stopped, drawing back to meet his gaze with her own, heavy-lidded and dreamy. "What did you say?"

"I… love you."

"That's what I thought I heard," she said. He saw tears gathering in her eyes.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded. "More than all right," she said. "I think… I think I love you, too." She laughed, almost a little nervously. "How lucky is that?"

"Starting to think luck had little to do with it," he said. "Our families are compatible. I think that paved the way for us. Under other circumstances—if I weren't a prince and you, a princess—we might have found each other, anyway."

She offered him a bright smile. "I think you're right," she said, then reached up to put her arms around his neck to give him a kiss, long and sweet and full of tenderness.

 **The end.**


End file.
